Lingard looked in unconscious ecstasy at this vision, so amazing that it seemed to have strayed into his existence from beyond the limits of the conceivable.  It was impossible to guess her thoughts, to know her feelings, to understand her grief or her joy.  But she knew all that was at the bottom of his heart.  He had told her himself, impelled by a sudden thought, going to her in darkness, in desperation, in absurd hope, in incredible trust.  He had told her what he had told no one on earth, except perhaps, at times, himself, but without words—­less clearly.  He had told her and she had listened in silence.  She had listened leaning over the rail till at last her breath was on his forehead.  He remembered this and had a moment of soaring pride and of unutterable dismay.  He spoke, with an effort.

“You’ve heard what I said just now?  Here I am.”

“Do you expect me to say something?” she asked.  “Is it necessary?  Is it possible?”

“No,” he answered.  “It is said already.  I know what you expect from me.  Everything.”

“Everything,” she repeated, paused, and added much lower, “It is the very least.”  He seemed to lose himself in thought.

“It is extraordinary,” he reflected half aloud, “how I dislike that man.”  She leaned forward a little.

“Remember those two men are innocent,” she began.

“So am I—­innocent.  So is everybody in the world.  Have you ever met a man or a woman that was not?  They’ve got to take their chances all the same.”

“I expect you to be generous,” she said.

“To you?”

“Well—­to me.  Yes—­if you like to me alone.”

“To you alone!  And you know everything!” His voice dropped.  “You want your happiness.”

She made an impatient movement and he saw her clench the hand that was lying on the table.

“I want my husband back,” she said, sharply.

“Yes.  Yes.  It’s what I was saying.  Same thing,” he muttered with strange placidity.  She looked at him searchingly.  He had a large simplicity that filled one’s vision.  She found herself slowly invaded by this masterful figure.  He was not mediocre.  Whatever he might have been he was not mediocre.  The glamour of a lawless life stretched over him like the sky over the sea down on all sides to an unbroken horizon.  Within, he moved very lonely, dangerous and romantic.  There was in him crime, sacrifice, tenderness, devotion, and the madness of a fixed idea.  She thought with wonder that of all the men in the world he was indeed the one she knew the best and yet she could not foresee the speech or the act of the next minute.  She said distinctly: 

“You’ve given me your confidence.  Now I want you to give me the life of these two men.  The life of two men whom you do not know, whom to-morrow you will forget.  It can be done.  It must be done.  You cannot refuse them to me.”  She waited.

“Why can’t I refuse?” he whispered, gloomily, without looking up.