“It is fitting,” I said, “that Greek meet Greek—that Menelaus should be introduced to Helen. May I say that when Helen is not Helen she is Mrs. Falchion, and when Menelaus is not Menelaus he is—Mr. Charles Boyd.”
I am afraid my voice faltered slightly, because there came over me suddenly a nervousness as unexpected as it was inconvenient, and my words, which began lightly, ended huskily. Had Madras miscalculated this woman?
Her eyes were afire, and her face was as pale as marble; all its slight but healthy glow had fled. A very faint gasp came from her lips. I saw that she recognised him, as he bowed and mentioned her name, following my introduction. I knew not what might occur, for I saw danger in her eyes in reply to the beseeching look in his. Would melodrama supervene after all? She merely bowed towards me, as if to dismiss me, and then she rose, took his arm, and moved away. The interview that follows came to me from Boyd Madras afterwards.
When they had reached the semi-darkness of the forward part of the ship, she drew her hand quickly away, and, turning to him, said: “What is the name by which you are called? One does not always hear distinctly when being introduced.”
He did not understand what she was about to do, but he felt the deadly coldness in her voice. “My name is known to you,” he replied. He steadied himself.
“No, pardon me, I do not know it, for I do not know you.... I never saw you before.” She leaned her hand carelessly on the bulwarks.
He was shocked, but he drew himself together. Their eyes were intent on each other. “You do know me! Need I tell you that I am Boyd Madras?” “Boyd Madras,” she said, musing coldly. “A peculiar name.”
“Mercy Madras was your name until you called yourself Mrs. Falchion,” he urged indignantly, yet anxiously too.
“It suits you to be mysterious, Mr.—ah yes, Mr. Boyd Madras; but, really, you might be less exacting in your demands upon one’s imagination.” Her look was again on him casually.
He spoke breathlessly. “Mercy—Mercy—for God’s sake, don’t treat me like this! Oh, my wife, I have wronged you every way, but I loved you always—love you now. I have only followed you to ask you to forgive me, after all these years. I saw you in Colombo just before you came on board, and I felt that I must come also. You never loved me. Perhaps that is better for you, but you do not know what I suffer. If you could give me a chance, and come with me to America—anywhere, and let me start the world again? I can—travel straight now, and I will work hard, and be honest. I will—” But here sudden pain brought back the doubt concerning his life and its possibilities.