There was an earnest, almost a bitter, protest in the reply.
“Pardon me, if I cannot answer your question. Your life was saved, and that is all we have to consider, except to be grateful to Providence. The duties of my office have nothing to do with possibilities.”
She was evidently torturing him, and I longed to say a word that would torture her. She continued: “And the flesh-pots—you have not answered about them: do you not long for them—occasionally?”
“They are of a period,” he answered, “too distant for regret.”
“And yet,” she replied softly, “I fancied sometimes in London last year, that you had not outgrown that antique time—those lotos-days.”
He made no reply at once, and in the pause Justine and I passed out to the verandah.
“How long does Mrs. Falchion intend remaining here, Miss Caron?” I said.
Her reply was hesitating: “I do not quite know; but I think some time. She likes the place; it seems to amuse her.”
“And you—does it amuse you?”
“It does not matter about me. I am madame’s servant; but, indeed, it does not amuse me particularly.”