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When a girl has gone a certain length she seems less able than a man to withstand a disappointment in love. Silver Tongue simply clenched his teeth, withdrew from the Concordia Club and the Wednesday night bowls at Conrad’s, and went on baking bread and rolls much as usual. Poor Rosalie drooped like a flower in the sun, and though she had pride enough to act a part and show a becoming spirit before the world, she had received a wound that I sometimes feared might prove mortal. I sent her to Tonga Taboo for a month, and she came back no better, her eyes black ringed and her cheeks hollow, and her smile (always to me the most beautiful smile in the world), with a curious, haunting pathos that I remember so well in the old slaving days among the Line women in their chains.

You must not think I tamely acquiesced in this state of affairs, or allowed my old friend an undisturbed possession of the Kanaka quarters behind the bakery. Late or early I gave him no peace, and plagued him, I dare say, to the very verge of distraction. But I might as well have tried to argue with his bread or soften his brick furnace for any impression I succeeded in making upon him. In his crazy obstinacy he would listen to nothing, and I would find myself, after one of these interviews, in a state of indescribable exasperation and determined never to go near him again.

One night, when I was up at Malifa calling on a dear good friend of mine, Sasa French, a charming and most accomplished young native lady, our talk happened to run for the thousandth time on this vexing matter of Rosalie and Silver Tongue. All of a sudden an idea came into Sasa’s pretty head–one of those brilliant, clever, feminine ideas–that seemed to us, in that triumphant moment, to be the means of untangling all our difficulties. Though it was eight o’clock, and there was the risk of gossip in my driving Sasa French alone about the Municipality at such an hour, I put her into my buggy, whipped up my horse, and set a straight course for Seumanutafa, the high chief of Apia. He laughed a good deal, demurred somewhat, and was finally persuaded to squeeze his Herculean dimensions into the trap and start off with us for To’oto’o’s house at Songi. Here, after the usual ceremonious exchanges, the womenfolk and children melted away and left us alone with To’oto’o, whose ferretty eyes betrayed no small degree of curiosity and alarm. This man was one of the few Samoans I never liked. He was a gaunt, dangerous, crafty-looking customer of about fifty, and I never had had any use for him since he had stolen my tethering rope one evening when I was calling on the king. Well, to get on with my story, we talked about the weather, and the war, and what an ass the Ta’ita’ifono was, and finally got round to the matter in hand.

Seumanutafa began mild, for he was a past master in the art of graduation, and thought to go slow at first. To’oto’o was informed that he had to make ifonga for the death of O and be carried on the morrow by the taulelea to Papalangi Mativa’s house behind the bakery. This ifonga, as they call it, is a sort of public humiliation to expiate a fault, and nobody’s very keen about doing it unless they have to–for it involves rubbing dirt in your hair, and singing small, and suffering a sort of social eclipse for a week or two afterwards. To’oto’o’s face grew several shades darker at the suggestion, and though I promised him twenty dollars out of hand for himself and two kegs of beef and three tins of biscuit by way of peace offering to Papalangi Mativa, he hemmed and hawed and finally said no.