THE BEAST IN THE JUNGLE
She promptly shook her head. "Never!"
It confirmed the authority he imputed to her, and it produced on him an extraordinary effect. "Well, what's better than that? Do you call that the worst?"
"You think nothing is better?" she asked.
She seemed to mean something so special that he again sharply wondered, though still with the dawn of a prospect of relief. "Why not, if one doesn't know?" After which, as their eyes, over his question, met in a silence, the dawn deepened and something to his purpose came, prodigiously, out of her very face. His own, as he took it in, suddenly flushed to the forehead, and he gasped with the force of a perception to which, on the instant, everything fitted. The sound of his gasp filled the air; then he became articulate. "I see—if I don't suffer!"
In her own look, however, was doubt. "You see what?"
"Why, what you mean—what you've always meant."
She again shook her head. "What I mean isn't what I've always meant. It's different."
"It's something new?"
She hesitated. "Something new. It's not what you think. I see what you think."
His divination drew breath then; only her correction might be wrong. "It isn't that I am a donkey?" he asked between faintness and grimness. "It isn't that it's all a mistake?"
"A mistake?" she pityingly echoed. That possibility, for her, he saw, would be monstrous; and if she*guaranteed him the immunity from pain it would accordingly not be what she had in mind. "Oh, no," she declared; "it's nothing of that sort. You've been right."
Yet he couldn't help asking himself if she weren't, thus pressed, speaking but to save him. It seemed to
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