Was it possible that she was that kind of woman, he asked himself.  Did she see nothing in the world outside herself?  Was she above the commonest kind of compassion?  He couldn’t suspect Mrs. Travers of stupidity; but she might have been heartless and, like some women of her class, quite unable to recognize any emotion in the world except her own.  D’Alcacer was shocked and at the same time he was relieved because he confessed to himself that he had ventured very far.  However, in her humanity she was not vulgar enough to be offended.  She was not the slave of small meannesses.  This thought pleased d’Alcacer who had schooled himself not to expect too much from people.  But he didn’t know what to do next.  After what he had ventured to say and after the manner in which she had met his audacity the only thing to do was to change the conversation.  Mrs. Travers remained perfectly still.  “I will pretend that I think she is asleep,” he thought to himself, meditating a retreat on tip-toe.

He didn’t know that Mrs. Travers was simply trying to recover the full command of her faculties.  His words had given her a terrible shock.  After managing to utter this defensive “croyez-vous” which came out of her lips cold and faint as if in a last effort of dying strength, she felt herself turn rigid and speechless.  She was thinking, stiff all over with emotion:  “D’Alcacer has seen it!  How much more has he been able to see?” She didn’t ask herself that question in fear or shame but with a reckless resignation.  Out of that shock came a sensation of peace.  A glowing warmth passed through all her limbs.  If d’Alcacer had peered by that smoky light into her face he might have seen on her lips a fatalistic smile come and go.  But d’Alcacer would not have dreamed of doing such a thing, and, besides, his attention just then was drawn in another direction.  He had heard subdued exclamations, had noticed a stir on the decks of the Emma, and even some sort of noise outside the ship.

“These are strange sounds,” he said.

“Yes, I hear,” Mrs. Travers murmured, uneasily.

Vague shapes glided outside the Cage, barefooted, almost noiseless, whispering Malay words secretly.

“It seems as though a boat had come alongside,” observed d’Alcacer, lending an attentive ear.  “I wonder what it means.  In our position. . . .”

“It may mean anything,” interrupted Mrs. Travers.

“Jaffir is here,” said a voice in the darkness of the after end of the ship.  Then there were some more words in which d’Alcacer’s attentive ear caught the word “surat.”

“A message of some sort has come,” he said.  “They will be calling Captain Lingard.  I wonder what thoughts or what dreams this call will interrupt.”  He spoke lightly, looking now at Mrs. Travers who had altered her position in the chair; and by their tones and attitudes these two might have been on board the yacht sailing the sea in perfect safety.  “You, of course, are the one who will be told.  Don’t you feel a sort of excitement, Mrs. Travers?”