was mainly prompted by Mr. Travers' desire
to have somebody to talk to. D'Alcacer had accepted with the reckless
indifference of a man to whom one method of flight from a relentless
enemy is as good as another. Certainly the prospect of listening to long
monologues on commerce, administration, and politics did not promise
much alleviation to his sorrow; and he could not expect much else from
Mr. Travers, whose life and thought, ignorant of human passion, were
devoted to extracting the greatest possible amount of personal advantage
from human institutions. D'Alcacer found, however, that he could attain
a measure of forgetfulness--the most precious thing for him now--in the
society of Edith Travers.

She had awakened his curiosity, which he thought nothing and nobody on
earth could do any more.

These two talked of things indifferent and interesting, certainly not
connected with human institutions, and only very slightly with human
passions; but d'Alcacer could not help being made aware of her latent
capacity for sympathy developed in those who are disenchanted with life
or death. How far she was disenchanted he did not know, and did
not attempt to find out. This restraint was imposed upon him by the
chivalrous respect he had for the secrets of women and by a conviction
that deep feeling is often impenetrably obscure, even to those it
masters for their inspiration or their ruin. He believed that even she
herself would never know; but his grave curiosity was satisfied by the
observation of her mental state, and he was not sorry that the stranding
of the yacht prolonged his opportunity.

Time passed on that mudbank as well as anywhere else, and it was not
from a multiplicity of events, but from the lapse of time alone, that
he expected relief. Yet in the sameness of days upon the Shallows, time
flowing ceaselessly, flowed imperceptibly; and, since every man clings
to his own, be it joy, be it grief, he was pleased after the unrest
of his wanderings to be able to fancy the whole universe and even time
itself apparently come to a standstill; as if unwilling to take him away
further from his sorrow, which was fading indeed but undiminished, as
things fade, not in the distance but in the mist.

II

D'Alcacer was a man of nearly forty, lean and sallow, with hollow eyes
and a drooping brown moustache. His gaze was penetrating and direct, his
smile frequent and fleeting. He observed Lingard with great interest.
He was att