Travers in an
unexpectedly confidential tone. "Isn't it funny, d'Alcacer? And then I
wake up. It's too awful."
D'Alcacer made no remark and Mr. Travers seemed not to have expected
any.
"When I said my wife was mad," he began, suddenly, causing d'Alcacer
to start, "I didn't mean it literally, of course." His tone sounded
slightly dogmatic and he didn't seem to be aware of any interval during
which he had appeared to sleep. D'Alcacer was convinced more than ever
that he had been shamming, and resigned himself wearily to listen,
folding his arms across his chest. "What I meant, really," continued Mr.
Travers, "was that she is the victim of a craze. Society is subject to
crazes, as you know very well. They are not reprehensible in themselves,
but the worst of my wife is that her crazes are never like those of the
people with whom she naturally associates. They generally run counter to
them. This peculiarity has given me some anxiety, you understand, in the
position we occupy. People will begin to say that she is eccentric. Do
you see her anywhere, d'Alcacer?"
D'Alcacer was thankful to be able to say that he didn't see Mrs.
Travers. He didn't even hear any murmurs, though he had no doubt that
everybody on board the Emma was wide awake by now. But Mr. Travers
inspired him with invincible mistrust and he thought it prudent to add:
"You forget that your wife has a room in the deckhouse.
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