His eyes had been
always very sensitive to outward conditions. D'Alcacer's fine black eyes
were more enduring and his appearance did not differ very much from his
ordinary appearance on board the yacht. He had accepted with smiling
thanks the offer of a thin blue flannel tunic from Jorgenson. Those two
men were much of the same build, though of course d'Alcacer, quietly
alive and spiritually watchful, did not resemble Jorgenson, who, without
being exactly macabre, behaved more like an indifferent but restless
corpse. Those two could not be said to have ever conversed together.
Conversation with Jorgenson was an impossible thing. Even Lingard never
attempted the feat. He propounded questions to Jorgenson much as a
magician would interrogate an evoked shade, or gave him curt directions
as one would make use of some marvellous automaton. And that was
apparently the way in which Jorgenson preferred to be treated. Lingard's
real company on board the Emma was d'Alcacer. D'Alcacer had met Lingard
on the easy terms of a man accustomed all his life to good society in
which the very affectations must be carried on without effort. Whether
affectation, or nature, or inspired discretion, d'Alcacer never let the
slightest curiosity pierce the smoothness of his level, grave courtesy
lightened frequently by slight smiles which often had not much
connection with the words he uttered, except that somehow they made them
sound kindly and as it were tactful.
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