OF THE SOUTH SEAS 53 



towels. I wore the luireu, the red strip of calico, bear- 

 ing designs by William Morris, which the native buys 

 instead of his original one of tapa, the beaten cloth 

 made from tree bark or pith. 



I met Lovaina coming out of the shower, a sheet 

 about her which could not cover half of her immense 

 and regal body. She hesitated — I was almost a 

 stranger, — and in a vain effort to do better, trod on the 

 sheet, and pulled it to her feet. I picked it up for her. 



"I shamed for you see me like this!" she said. 



I was blushing all over, though whj^ I don't know, 

 but I faltered: 



"Like a great American Beauty rose." 



"Faded rose too big," exclaimed Lovaina, with the 

 faintest air of coquetry as I hastily shut the door. 



A little while later, when I came to the dining-room 

 for the first breakfast, I met Lovaina in a blue-figured 

 aahu of muslin and lace, a close-fitting, sweeping night- 

 gown, the single garment that Tahitians wear all day 

 and take off at night, a tunic, or Mother Hubbard, 

 which reveals their figures without disguise, unstayed, 

 unpetticoated. Lovaina was, as always, barefooted, 

 and she took me into her garden, one of the few cul- 

 tivated in Tahiti, where nature makes man almost super- 

 fluous in the decoration of the earth. 



"This house my father give me when marry," said Lo- 

 vaina. "My God! you just should seen that arearea! 

 Las' all day, mos' night. We jus' move in. Ban's 

 playin' from war-ship, all merry drinkin', dancin'. 

 Never such good time. I tell you nobody could walk 

 barefoot one week, so much broken glass in garden an' 

 street." 



