“You were never born,” he declared, “to follow the well worn roads. He turned the water off and handed her a towel. He removed his cockaded hat, putting it down between them as he sat at the other end, placing himself at an angle and, crossing his legs, leaned back at his ease, his eyes fixed on her face. A day will come when you will thank me. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. Couldn’t face me with what he’d done, the miserable blackguard. I've engaged to watch over you as a son, and I will do so as far as I'm able; but if you neglect my advice, what chance have I of benefitting you? On one point I've made up my mind—you shall either obey me, or leave me. “I cannot reason with you,” he said at last wearily. "Because she's a fire-opal, and to the world at large they bring bad luck.
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