ected by an adventure too extraordinary to
trouble a superior mind or even to remain in one's memory for any length
of time. He was not responsible. Like many men ambitious of
directing the affairs of a nation, Mr. Travers disliked the sense of
responsibility. He would not have been above evading it in case of need,
but with perverse loftiness he really, in his heart, scorned it. That
was the reason why he was able to lie at rest and enjoy a sense of
returning vigour. But he did not care much to talk as yet, and that was
why the silence in the stateroom had lasted for hours. The bulkhead lamp
had a green silk shade. It was unnecessary to admit for a moment the
existence of impudence or ruffianism. A discreet knocking at the cabin
door sounded deferential.

Mrs. Travers got up to see what was wanted, and returned without
uttering a single word to the folding armchair by the side of the
bed-place, with an envelope in her hand which she tore open in the
greenish light. Mr. Travers remained incurious but his wife handed to
him an unfolded sheet of paper which he condescended to hold up to his
eyes. It contained only one line of writing. He let the paper fall on
the coverlet and went on reposing as before. It was a sick man's repose.
Mrs. Travers in the armchair, with her hands on the arm-rests, had a
great dignity of attitude.

"I intend to go," she declared after a time.

"You intend to go," repeated Mr. Travers in a feeble, deliberate voice.
"Really, it doesn't matter what you decide to do. All this is of so
little importance. It seems to me that there can be no possible object."

"Perhaps not," she admitted. "But don't you think that the uttermost
farthing should always be paid?"

Mr. Travers' head rolled over on the pillow and gave a covertly scared
look at that outspoken woman. But it rolled back again at once and the
whole man remained passive, the very embodiment of helpless exhaustion.
Mrs. Travers noticed this, and had the unexpected impression that Mr.
Travers was not so ill as he looked. "He's making the most of it. It's
a matter of diplomacy," she thought. She thought this without irony,
bitterness, or disgust. Only her heart sank a little lower and she felt
that she could not remain in the cabin with that man for the rest of the
evening. For all life--yes! But not for that evening.

"It's simply monstrous," murmured the man, who was either very
diplomatic or very exhausted, in a languid manner. "There is