"No"—he drew up his arm wound round with her hair—"No—a goldfish."
"Well, so be it; a goldfish swimming in my own crystal element, and happy in it. You would not take me out of it to gasp and die. Trust me, Captain Coppinger, I could not—even if I would—live in your world."
She put up her hands to his arm and drew some of the hair through his fingers, and unwound it from his sleeve. He made no resistance. He watched her, in a dream. He had heard every word she had said, and he knew that she spoke the truth. They belonged to different realms of thought and sensation. He could not breathe—he would stifle—in hers, and it was possible—it was certain—that she could not endure the strong, rough quality of his.
Her delicate fingers touched his hand, and sent a spasm to his heart. She was drawing away another strand of hair, and untwisting it from about his arm, passing the wavy, fire-gold from one hand to the other. And as every strand was taken off, so went light and hope from him, and despair settled down on his dark spirit.
He was thinking whether it would not have been better to have thrown himself down when he had her in his arms, and bound to him by the chain.
Then he laughed.
She looked up, and caught his wild eye. There was a timid inquiry in her look, and he answered it.
"You may unwind your hair from my arm, but it is woven round and round my heart, and you cannot loose it thence."
She drew another strand away, and released that also from his arm. There remained now but one red-gold band of hair fastening her to him. He looked entreatingly at her, and then at the hair.
"It must indeed be so," she said, and released herself wholly.
Then she stood up, a little timidly, for she could not trust him in his passion and his despair. But he did not stir; he looked at her with fixed, dreamy eyes. She left her place, and moved toward the door. She had gone forth from Mr. Menaida's without hat or other cover for her head than the cloak with its hood, and that
