Lingard's face grew hot in the deepening
dusk. The delicate lemon yellow and ethereal green tints had vanished
from the sky and the red glow darkened menacingly. The sun had set
behind the black pall of the forest, no longer edged with a line of
gold. "Yes, I was absurdly self-conscious," continued Mrs. Travers in a
conversational tone. "And it was the effect of these clothes that you
made me put on over some of my European--I almost said disguise; because
you know in the present more perfect costume I feel curiously at home;
and yet I can't say that these things really fit me. The sleeves of this
silk under-jacket are rather tight. My shoulders feel bound, too, and as
to the sarong it is scandalously short. According to rule it should have
been long enough to fall over my feet. But I like freedom of movement. I
have had very little of what I liked in life."
"I can hardly believe that," said Lingard. "If it wasn't for your saying
so. . . ."
"I wouldn't say so to everybody," she said, turning her head for a
moment to Lingard and turning it away again to the dusk which seemed to
come floating over the black lagoon. Far away in its depth a couple of
feeble lights twinkled; it was impossible to say whether on the shore
or on the edge of the more distant forest. Overhead the stars were
beginning to come out, but faint yet, as if too remote to be reflected
in the lagoon.
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