“Mr. Hamel,” she said quietly, “I dare say that even during these few days you have realised that Mr. Fentolin is a very peculiar man.”
“I have certainly observed—eccentricities,” Hamel assented.
“My life, and the lives of my two children,” she went on, “is devoted to the task of ministering to his happiness.”
“Isn’t that rather a heavy sacrifice?” he asked. Mrs. Seymour Fentolin looked down the long, narrow way along which Mr. Fentolin had passed. He was out of sight now, inside the Tower. Somehow or other, the thought seemed to give her courage and dignity. She spoke differently, without nervousness or hurry.
“To you, Mr. Hamel,” she said, “it may seem so. We who make it know of its necessity.”
He bowed his head. It was not a subject for him to discuss with her.
“Mr. Fentolin has whims,” she went on, “violent whims. We all try to humour him. He has his own ideas about Gerald’s bringing up. I do not agree with them, but we submit. Esther, too, suffers, perhaps to a less extent. As for me,”—her voice broke a little—“Mr. Fentolin likes people around him who are always cheerful. He prefers even a certain style—of dress. I, too, have to do my little share.”
Hamel’s face grew darker.
“Has it ever occurred to you,” he demanded, “that Mr. Fentolin is a tyrant?”
She closed her eyes for a moment.