r seemed unable to shake off a strong aversion
to talk, and the conversation, like an expiring breeze, kept on dying
out repeatedly after each languid gust. The large silence of the
horizon, the profound repose of all things visible, enveloping the
bodies and penetrating the souls with their quieting influence, stilled
thought as well as voice. For a long time no one spoke. Behind the
taciturnity of the masters the servants hovered without noise.

Suddenly, Mr. Travers, as if concluding a train of thought, muttered
aloud:

"I own with regret I did in a measure lose my temper; but then you will
admit that the existence of such a man is a disgrace to civilization."

This remark was not taken up and he returned for a time to the nursing
of his indignation, at the bottom of which, like a monster in a fog,
crept a bizarre feeling of rancour. He waved away an offered dish.

"This coast," he began again, "has been placed under the sole protection
of Holland by the Treaty of 1820. The Treaty of 1820 creates special
rights and obligations. . . ."

Both his hearers felt vividly the urgent necessity to hear no more.
D'Alcacer, uncomfortable on a campstool, sat stiff and stared at the
glass stopper of a carafe. Mrs. Travers turned a little sideways and
leaning on her elbow rested her head on the palm of her hand like one
thinking about matters of profound import. Mr. Travers talked; he talked
inflexibly, in a harsh blank voice, as if reading a proclamation.
The other two, as if in a state of incomplete trance, had their ears
assailed by fragments of official verbiage.

"An international understanding--the duty to civilize--failed to carry
out--compact--Canning--" D'Alcacer became attentive for a moment.
"--not that this attempt, almost amusing in its impudence, influences my
opinion. I won't admit the possibility of any violence being offered to
people of our position. It is the social aspect of such an incident I am
desirous of criticising."

Here d'Alcacer lost himself again in the recollection of Mrs. Travers
and Immada looking at each other--the beginning and the end, the
flower and the leaf, the phrase and the cry. Mr. Travers' voice went
on dogmatic and obstinate for a long time. The end came with a certain
vehemence.

"And if the inferior race must perish, it is a gain, a step toward the
perfecting of society which is the aim of progress."

He ceased. The sparks of sunset in crystal and silver had gone out,
and ar