Hamel stared at his companion, for a moment, blankly. Her attitude was so unexpected, her questioning so fierce.
“My dear Mrs. Fentolin,” he began—.
She suddenly relaxed her grip of his arm. Something of the old hopelessness was settling down upon her face. Her hands fell into her lap.
“No,” she interrupted, “I forgot! I mustn’t talk like that. She, too, is part of the sacrifice.”
“Part of the sacrifice,” Hamel repeated, frowning. “Is she, indeed! I don’t know what sacrifice you mean, but Esther is the girl whom sooner or later, somehow or other, I am going to make my wife, and when she is my wife, I shall see to it that she isn’t afraid of Miles Fentolin or of any other man breathing.”
A gleam of hopefulness shone through the stony misery of the woman’s face.
“Does Esther care?” she asked softly.
“How can I tell? I can only hope so. If she doesn’t yet, she shall some day. I suppose,” he added, with a sigh, “it is rather too soon yet to expect that she should. If it is necessary, I can wait.”
Mrs. Fentolin’s eyes were once more fixed upon the Tower. The sun had caught the top of the telephone wire and played around it till it seemed like a long, thin shaft of silver.
“If you go down there,” she said, “Esther will not be allowed to see you at all. Mr. Fentolin has decided to take it as a personal affront. You will be ostracised from here.”