She continued the story, but suddenly stopped and looked up at him under the shadow of her hood.
“You are silent,” she said. “Do you know something about my father of which I am ignorant? Is that it?”
“No,” he answered, “I am trying to follow—that is all. You leave so much to my imagination.”
“But I have no time to explain things,” she protested. “Every moment is of value. I will explain all those things some other time. At this moment all I can think of is my father and the danger he is in. If it had not been for Barlasch, he would have been in prison by now. And as it is, the danger is only half averted. For he, himself, is so little help. All must be done for him. He will do nothing for himself while this humour is upon him; you understand?”
“Partly,” he answered slowly.
“Oh!” she exclaimed half-impatiently, “one sees that you are an Englishman.”
And she found time, even in her hurry, to laugh. For she was young enough to float buoyant upon that sea of hope which ebbs in the course of years and leaves men stranded on the hard facts of life.
“You forget,” he said in self-defence.
“I forget what?”
“That a week ago I had never seen Dantzig, or your father, or your sister, or the Frauengasse. A week ago I did not know that there was anybody called Sebastian in the world—and did not care.”