e
happened to look his way.
We waited until it pleased Miserrimus Dexter to proceed. The interval
was a long one. His hand went up again to his forehead. A duller and
duller look was palpably stealing over his eyes. When he did speak, it
was not to go on with the narrative, but to put a question.
"Where did I leave off?" he asked.
My hopes sank again as rapidly as they had risen. I managed to answer
him, however, without showing any change in my manner.
"You left off," I said, "where Damoride was speaking to Cunegonda--"
"Yes, yes!" he interposed. "And what did she say?"
"She said, 'The door is kept locked, and the nurse has got the key.'"
He instantly leaned forward in his chair.
"No!" he answered, vehemently. "You're wrong. 'Key?' Nonsense! I never
said 'Key.'"
"I thought you did, Mr. Dexter."
"I never did! I said something else, and you have forgotten it."
I refrained from disputing with him, in fear of what might follow. We
waited again. Benjamin, sullenly submitting to my caprices, had taken
down the questions and answers that had passed between Dexter and
myself. He still mechanically kept his page open, and still held his
pencil in readiness to go on. Ariel, quietly submitting to the drowsy
influence of the wine while Dexter's voice was in her ears, felt
uneasily the change to silence. She glanced round her restlessly; she
lifted her eyes to "the Master."
There he sat, silent, with his hand to his head, still struggling to
marshal his wandering thoughts, still trying to see light through the
darkness that was closing round him.
"Master!" cried Ariel, piteously. "What's become of the story?"
He started as if she had awakened him out of a sleep; he shook his
head impatiently, as though he wanted to throw off some oppression that
weighed upon it.
"Patience, patience," he said. "The story is going on again."
He dashed at it desperately; he picked up the first lost thread that
fell in his way, reckless whether it were the right thread or the wrong
one:
"Damoride fell on her knees. She burst into tears. She said--"
He stopped, and looked about him with vacant eyes.
"What name did I give the other woman?" he asked, not putting the
question to me, or to either of my companions: asking it of himself, or
asking it of the empty air.
"You called the other woman Cunegonda," I said.
At the sound of my voice his eyes turned slowly--turned on me, and yet
failed to look at me. Dull
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