In the darkness she grew pale with anger at his tone, but she had fear too, of she knew not what. Her wish was to rise and leave him at once; but curiosity chained her—curiosity and creeping, creeping fear. Dimly she became conscious of the predestined feeling that once or twice before in her life had presaged strange happenings. What was she going to hear? She sat very still, waiting.
The man leaned close to her and spoke into her ear. His breathing was quick and excited, but he had some difficulty with his words; he muttered and his sentences were halting and disjointed.
But Poppy heard everything he said. It seemed to her that his lowest whisper pierced to the inmost places of her being, and reverberated through her like the echoing and resounding of bells. Afterwards there was a terrible quiet. He could not see her face. She appeared almost to be crouching in her chair, all bundled up, but he did not venture to touch her—some instinct kept him from that. Pity, mingled with his base passion and scorn. He regretted that he had spoken so violently. He feared he had been brutal. At last she spoke, in a faint voice, that seemed to come from far away.
"I don't know what you mean ... I think you must be mad."
Newnham laughed—derisively, devilishly.
"I'll bet that's what you are going home for, all the same."
While he was furiously laughing, with his hand flung above his head, she flamed up out of her chair, and spoke for a moment down at him in a low, vibrating voice:
"You vile man! Never dare speak to me again. You are not fit to live!"
Then she was gone.
After a time he got up and stumbled towards the smoke-room, intending to get drunk; but he changed his mind before he reached it, and went to his cabin instead. Having closed his door, he sat in the berth and stared at his boots. He said at last: