Yes,
that relief and also another: that of sharing the responsibility with
somebody fit to understand. Yet she shrank from it, with unaccountable
reserve, as if by talking of Lingard with d'Alcacer she was bound to
give him an insight into herself. It was a vague uneasiness and yet so
persistent that she felt it, too, when she had to approach and talk to
Lingard under d'Alcacer's eyes. Not that Mr. d'Alcacer would ever dream
of staring or even casting glances. But was he averting his eyes on
purpose? That would be even more offensive.
"I am stupid," whispered Mrs. Travers to herself, with a complete and
reassuring conviction. Yet she waited motionless till the footsteps of
the two men stopped outside the deckhouse, then separated and died away,
before she went out on deck. She came out on deck some time after her
husband. As if in intended contrast to the conflicts of men a great
aspect of serenity lay upon all visible things. Mr. Travers had gone
inside the Cage in which he really looked like a captive and thoroughly
out of place. D'Alcacer had gone in there, too, but he preserved--or was
it an illusion?--an air of independence. It was not that he put it
on. Like Mr. Travers he sat in a wicker armchair in very much the same
attitude as the other gentleman and also silent; but there was somewhere
a subtle difference which did away with the notion of captivity.
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