It was unnecessary to admit for a moment the
existence of impudence or ruffianism. A discreet knocking at the cabin
door sounded deferential.
Mrs. Travers got up to see what was wanted, and returned without
uttering a single word to the folding armchair by the side of the
bed-place, with an envelope in her hand which she tore open in the
greenish light. Mr. Travers remained incurious but his wife handed to
him an unfolded sheet of paper which he condescended to hold up to his
eyes. It contained only one line of writing. He let the paper fall on
the coverlet and went on reposing as before. It was a sick man's repose.
Mrs. Travers in the armchair, with her hands on the arm-rests, had a
great dignity of attitude.
"I intend to go," she declared after a time.
"You intend to go," repeated Mr. Travers in a feeble, deliberate voice.
"Really, it doesn't matter what you decide to do. All this is of so
little importance. It seems to me that there can be no possible object."
"Perhaps not," she admitted. "But don't you think that the uttermost
farthing should always be paid?"
Mr. Travers' head rolled over on the pillow and gave a covertly scared
look at that outspoken woman. But it rolled back again at once and the
whole man remained passive, the very embodiment of helpless exhaustion.
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