“Do you mean seriously to tell me that you consider me a creature of darkness?”

“I spoke in general,” remonstrated d’Alcacer.  “Anything else would have been an impertinence.  Yes, obscurity is women’s best friend.  Their daring loves it; but a sudden flash of light disconcerts them.  Generally speaking, if they don’t get exactly at the truth they always manage to come pretty near to it.”

Mrs. Travers had listened with silent attention and she allowed the silence to continue for some time after d’Alcacer had ceased.  When she spoke it was to say in an unconcerned tone that as to this subject she had had special opportunities.  Her self-possessed interlocutor managed to repress a movement of real curiosity under an assumption of conventional interest.  “Indeed,” he exclaimed, politely.  “A special opportunity.  How did you manage to create it?”

This was too much for Mrs. Travers.  “I!  Create it!” she exclaimed, indignantly, but under her breath.  “How on earth do you think I could have done it?”

Mr. d’Alcacer, as if communing with himself, was heard to murmur unrepentantly that indeed women seldom knew how they had “done it,” to which Mrs. Travers in a weary tone returned the remark that no two men were dense in the same way.  To this Mr. d’Alcacer assented without difficulty.  “Yes, our brand presents more varieties.  This, from a certain point of view, is obviously to our advantage.  We interest. . . .  Not that I imagine myself interesting to you, Mrs. Travers.  But what about the Man of Fate?”

“Oh, yes,” breathed out Mrs. Travers.

“I see!  Immensely!” said d’Alcacer in a tone of mysterious understanding.  “Was his stupidity so colossal?”

“It was indistinguishable from great visions that were in no sense mean and made up for him a world of his own.”

“I guessed that much,” muttered d’Alcacer to himself.  “But that, you know, Mrs. Travers, that isn’t good news at all to me.  World of dreams, eh?  That’s very bad, very dangerous.  It’s almost fatal, Mrs. Travers.”

“Why all this dismay?  Why do you object to a world of dreams?”

“Because I dislike the prospect of being made a sacrifice of by those Moors.  I am not an optimist like our friend there,” he continued in a low tone nodding toward the dismal figure of Mr. Travers huddled up in the chair.  “I don’t regard all this as a farce and I have discovered in myself a strong objection to having my throat cut by those gorgeous barbarians after a lot of fatuous talk.  Don’t ask me why, Mrs. Travers.  Put it down to an absurd weakness.”

Mrs. Travers made a slight movement in her chair, raising her hands to her head, and in the dim light of the lanterns d’Alcacer saw the mass of her clear gleaming hair fall down and spread itself over her shoulders.  She seized half of it in her hands which looked very white, and with her head inclined a little on one side she began to make a plait.