ked?"

Mr. Travers made no reply. What she had said of his attitude was very
true. He sulked at the enormous offensiveness of men, things, and
events; of words and even of glances which he seemed to feel physically
resting on his skin like a pain, like a degrading contact. He managed
not to wince. But he sulked. His wife continued, "And let me tell
you that those clothes are fit for a princess--I mean they are of the
quality, material and style custom prescribes for the highest in the
land, a far-distant land where I am informed women rule as much as the
men. In fact they were meant to be presented to an actual princess in
due course. They were selected with the greatest care for that child
Immada. Captain Lingard. . . ."

Mr. Travers made an inarticulate noise partaking of a groan and a grunt.

"Well, I must call him by some name and this I thought would be the
least offensive for you to hear. After all, the man exists. But he is
known also on a certain portion of the earth's surface as King Tom.
D'Alcacer is greatly taken by that name. It seems to him wonderfully
well adapted to the man, in its familiarity and deference. And if you
prefer. . . ."

"I would prefer to hear nothing," said Mr. Travers, distinctly. "Not a
single word. Not even from you, till I am a free agent again. But words
don't touch me. Nothing can touch me; neither your sinister warnings nor
the moods of levity which you think proper to display before a man whose
life, according to you, hangs on a thread."

"I never forget it for a moment," said Mrs. Travers. "And I not only
know that it does but I also know the strength of the thread. It is a
wonderful thread. You may say if you like it has been spun by the same
fate which made you what you are."

Mr. Travers felt awfully offended. He had never heard anybody, let alone
his own self, addressed in such terms. The tone seemed to question his
very quality. He reflected with shocked amazement that he had lived with
that woman for eight years! And he said to her gloomily:

"You talk like a pagan."

It was a very strong condemnation which apparently Mrs. Travers had
failed to hear for she pursued with animation:

"But really, you can't expect me to meditate on it all the time or shut
myself up here and mourn the circumstances from morning to night. It
would be morbid. Let us go on deck."

"And you look simply heathenish in this costume," Mr. Travers went on
as though he had not been interrupted