"Yes, our brand presents more varieties. This, from a
certain point of view, is obviously to our advantage. We interest. . . .
Not that I imagine myself interesting to you, Mrs. Travers. But what
about the Man of Fate?"
"Oh, yes," breathed out Mrs. Travers.
"I see! Immensely!" said d'Alcacer in a tone of mysterious
understanding. "Was his stupidity so colossal?"
"It was indistinguishable from great visions that were in no sense mean
and made up for him a world of his own."
"I guessed that much," muttered d'Alcacer to himself. "But that, you
know, Mrs. Travers, that isn't good news at all to me. World of dreams,
eh? That's very bad, very dangerous. It's almost fatal, Mrs. Travers."
"Why all this dismay? Why do you object to a world of dreams?"
"Because I dislike the prospect of being made a sacrifice of by those
Moors. I am not an optimist like our friend there," he continued in a
low tone nodding toward the dismal figure of Mr. Travers huddled up in
the chair. "I don't regard all this as a farce and I have discovered
in myself a strong objection to having my throat cut by those gorgeous
barbarians after a lot of fatuous talk. Don't ask me why, Mrs. Travers.
Put it down to an absurd weakness."
Mrs. Travers made a slight movement in her chair, raising her hands to
her head, and in the dim light of the lanterns d'Alcacer saw the mass of
her clear gleaming hair fall down and spread itself over her shoulders.
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