to her years ago, when she was a girl.

"He's in the navy. He has just come back from a long cruise."

Mr. Hoy shook hands,--Benyon gave him his before he knew it,--said he
was very happy, smiled, looked at Benyon from head to foot, then at
Georgina, then round the room, then back at Benyon again,--at Benyon,
who stood there, without sound or movement, with a dilated eye, and a
pulse quickened to a degree of which Mr. Roy could have little idea.
Georgina made some remark about their sitting down, but William Roy
replied that he had n't time for that,--if Captain Benyon would excuse
him. He should have to go straight into the library, and write a note to
send back to his office, where, as he just remembered, he had neglected
to give, in leaving the place, an important direction.

"You can wait a moment, surely," Georgina said. "Captain Benyon wants so
much to see you."

"Oh, yes, my dear; I can wait a minute, and I can come back."

Benyon saw, accordingly, that he was waiting, and that Georgina was
waiting too. Each was waiting for him to say something, though they were
waiting for different things. Mr. Roy put his hands behind him,
balanced himself on his toes, hoped that Captain Benyon had enjoyed
his cruise,--though he should n't care much for the navy himself,--and
evidently wondered at the stolidity of his wife's visitor. Benyon knew
he was speaking, for he indulged in two or three more observations,
after which he stopped. But his meaning was not present to our hero.
This personage was conscious of only one thing, of his own momentary
power,--of everything that hung on his lips; all the rest swam before
him; there was vagueness in his ears and eyes. Mr. Roy stopped, as I
say, and there was a pause, which seemed to Benyon of tremendous length.
He knew, while it lasted, that Georgina was as conscious as himself that
he felt his opportunity, that he held it there in his hand, weighing it
noiselessly in the palm, and that she braved and scorned, or, rather,
that she enjoyed, the danger. He asked himself whether he should be able
to speak if he were to try, and then he knew that he should not, that
the words would stick in his throat, that he should make sounds that
would dishonor his cause. There was no real choice or decision, then, on
Benyon's part; his silence was after all the same old silence, the fruit
of other hours and places, the stillness to which Georgina listened,
while he felt her eager eyes fairly eat