And he was warmed by something a little helpless in that smile. Within
three feet of them the shade of Jorgenson, very gaunt and neat, stared
into space.
"Yes. You are strong," said Lingard. "But a whole long night sitting in
a small boat! I wonder you are not too stiff to stand."
"I am not stiff in the least," she interrupted, still smiling. "I am
really a very strong woman," she added, earnestly. "Whatever happens you
may reckon on that fact."
Lingard gave her an admiring glance. But the shade of Jorgenson, perhaps
catching in its remoteness the sound of the word woman, was suddenly
moved to begin scolding with all the liberty of a ghost, in a flow of
passionless indignation.
"Woman! That's what I say. That's just about the last touch--that you,
Tom Lingard, red-eyed Tom, King Tom, and all those fine names, that you
should leave your weapons twenty miles behind you, your men, your guns,
your brig that is your strength, and come along here with your mouth
full of fight, bare-handed and with a woman in tow.--Well--well!"
"Don't forget, Jorgenson, that the lady hears you," remonstrated Lingard
in a vexed tone. . . . "He doesn't mean to be rude," he remarked to Mrs.
Travers quite loud, as if indeed Jorgenson were but an immaterial and
feelingless illusion. "He has forgotten.
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