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.
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