“Yes.  And now I am sure.  You are here—­here!  Before I couldn’t tell.”

“Oh, you couldn’t tell before,” she said.

“No.”

“So it was reality that you were seeking.”

He repeated as if speaking to himself:  “And now I am sure.”

Her sandalled foot, all rosy in the glow, felt the warmth of the embers.  The tepid night had enveloped her body; and still under the impression of his strength she gave herself up to a momentary feeling of quietude that came about her heart as soft as the night air penetrated by the feeble clearness of the stars.  “This is a limpid soul,” she thought.

“You know I always believed in you,” he began again.  “You know I did.  Well.  I never believed in you so much as I do now, as you sit there, just as you are, and with hardly enough light to make you out by.”

It occurred to her that she had never heard a voice she liked so well—­except one.  But that had been a great actor’s voice; whereas this man was nothing in the world but his very own self.  He persuaded, he moved, he disturbed, he soothed by his inherent truth.  He had wanted to make sure and he had made sure apparently; and too weary to resist the waywardness of her thoughts Mrs. Travers reflected with a sort of amusement that apparently he had not been disappointed.  She thought, “He believes in me.  What amazing words.  Of all the people that might have believed in me I had to find this one here.  He believes in me more than in himself.”  A gust of sudden remorse tore her out from her quietness, made her cry out to him: 

“Captain Lingard, we forget how we have met, we forget what is going on.  We mustn’t.  I won’t say that you placed your belief wrongly but I have to confess something to you.  I must tell you how I came here to-night.  Jorgenson . . .”

He interrupted her forcibly but without raising his voice.

“Jorgenson.  Who’s Jorgenson?  You came to me because you couldn’t help yourself.”

This took her breath away.  “But I must tell you.  There is something in my coming which is not clear to me.”

“You can tell me nothing that I don’t know already,” he said in a pleading tone.  “Say nothing.  Sit still.  Time enough to-morrow.  To-morrow!  The night is drawing to an end and I care for nothing in the world but you.  Let me be.  Give me the rest that is in you.”

She had never heard such accents on his lips and she felt for him a great and tender pity.  Why not humour this mood in which he wanted to preserve the moments that would never come to him again on this earth?  She hesitated in silence.  She saw him stir in the darkness as if he could not make up his mind to sit down on the bench.  But suddenly he scattered the embers with his foot and sank on the ground against her feet, and she was not startled in the least to feel the weight of his head on her knee.  Mrs. Travers was not startled but she felt profoundly moved.  Why should she torment him