D'Alcacer's
wonder approached a feeling of awe. He was on the point of moving away
quietly when Mrs. Travers, without stirring in the least, let him hear
the words:
"I have told him that every day seemed more difficult to live. Don't you
see how impossible this is?"
D'Alcacer glanced rapidly across the Cage where Mr. Travers seemed to
be asleep all in a heap and presenting a ruffled appearance like a sick
bird. Nothing was distinct of him but the bald patch on the top of his
head.
"Yes," he murmured, "it is most unfortunate. . . . I understand your
anxiety, Mrs. Travers, but . . ."
"I am frightened," she said.
He reflected a moment. "What answer did you get?" he asked, softly.
"The answer was: 'Patience.'"
D'Alcacer laughed a little.--"You may well laugh," murmured Mrs. Travers
in a tone of anguish.--"That's why I did," he whispered. "Patience!
Didn't he see the horror of it?"--"I don't know. He walked away," said
Mrs. Travers. She looked immovably at her hands clasped in her lap,
and then with a burst of distress, "Mr. d'Alcacer, what is going to
happen?"--"Ah, you are asking yourself the question at last. _That_
will happen which cannot be avoided; and perhaps you know best what it
is."--"No. I am still asking myself what he will do."--"Ah, that is not
for me to know," declared d'Alcacer.
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