“Your fate is not in my hands.  It is not even in his hands.  There is a moral situation here which must be solved.”

“Ethics of blackmail,” commented Mr. Travers with unexpected sarcasm.  It flashed through his wife’s mind that perhaps she didn’t know him so well as she had supposed.  It was as if the polished and solemn crust of hard proprieties had cracked slightly, here and there, under the strain, disclosing the mere wrongheadedness of a common mortal.  But it was only manner that had cracked a little; the marvellous stupidity of his conceit remained the same.  She thought that this discussion was perfectly useless, and as she finished putting up her hair she said:  “I think we had better go on deck now.”

“You propose to go out on deck like this?” muttered Mr. Travers with downcast eyes.

“Like this?  Certainly.  It’s no longer a novelty.  Who is going to be shocked?”

Mr. Travers made no reply.  What she had said of his attitude was very true.  He sulked at the enormous offensiveness of men, things, and events; of words and even of glances which he seemed to feel physically resting on his skin like a pain, like a degrading contact.  He managed not to wince.  But he sulked.  His wife continued, “And let me tell you that those clothes are fit for a princess—­I mean they are of the quality, material and style custom prescribes for the highest in the land, a far-distant land where I am informed women rule as much as the men.  In fact they were meant to be presented to an actual princess in due course.  They were selected with the greatest care for that child Immada.  Captain Lingard. . . .”

Mr. Travers made an inarticulate noise partaking of a groan and a grunt.

“Well, I must call him by some name and this I thought would be the least offensive for you to hear.  After all, the man exists.  But he is known also on a certain portion of the earth’s surface as King Tom.  D’Alcacer is greatly taken by that name.  It seems to him wonderfully well adapted to the man, in its familiarity and deference.  And if you prefer. . . .”

“I would prefer to hear nothing,” said Mr. Travers, distinctly.  “Not a single word.  Not even from you, till I am a free agent again.  But words don’t touch me.  Nothing can touch me; neither your sinister warnings nor the moods of levity which you think proper to display before a man whose life, according to you, hangs on a thread.”

“I never forget it for a moment,” said Mrs. Travers.  “And I not only know that it does but I also know the strength of the thread.  It is a wonderful thread.  You may say if you like it has been spun by the same fate which made you what you are.”

Mr. Travers felt awfully offended.  He had never heard anybody, let alone his own self, addressed in such terms.  The tone seemed to question his very quality.  He reflected with shocked amazement that he had lived with that woman for eight years!  And he said to her gloomily: