470 MYSTIC ISLES 



live. Choti, a painter, whose pictures you see around 

 here, hves with the school-teacher up the road, and he 

 might find you a place. He 's an American, as I am, 

 and I suppose you, too." 



I raised my glass to our native land, and finding that 

 the hoy of Taravao had eaten his fill of fei and fish, I 

 said ariana to T'yonni, and drove to Choti's. The 

 painter was on the veranda of a cottage, finishing the 

 late breakfast. He received me with enthusiasm. 

 Tall, very spare, and his skin pale despite his wearing 

 only a pareu and never a hat, Choti's black eyes shone 

 under long, black hair, and over a Montmartre whisker 

 that covered his boyish face from his chiseled nose. 



"Hello!" he said. "Come and have dS'jeunerl" 



The manner of both T'yonni and Choti, while hospit- 

 able, and their glances at my bags, showed a probable 

 wonderment of my intentions. 



Was I an average tourist or loafer come to put an 

 unknown quantity in their smoothly working problem 

 of a pleasant life in this Eden? The artist must have 

 looked me over for indications of familiarity with brush 

 and palette. 



I replied to Choti that I had breakfasted with T'yonni, 

 and he smiled at my knowledge of his friend's Tautira 

 name. 



"How about getting .an apartment or a suite of 

 rooms?" I inquired. 



Choti sucked the last particle of poi from his fore- 

 finger, dipped it into a shell of water, shook hands, and 

 against my pleadings, accompanied me to the house of 

 Ori-a-Ori, the chief of the district. The chief, an ex- 

 cessively tall man, quite six and a half feet and big all 



