Presently Brenda leant back in the chair. There was a screen on the table near her—Mrs. Wylie's palm-leaf—and she extended her hand to take it, holding it subsequently between her face and the fire, so that if Trist had turned his head he could not have seen anything but her slim, graceful form, her white hand and wrist, and the screen glowing rosily. He did not turn, however, when he spoke.
'I will tell you,' he said, 'how I came to know.'
Before continuing, he rubbed his hands slowly together. Then he rose from his knees and remained standing near the fire close to her, but without looking in her direction. He seemed to be choosing his words.
'I came home,' he said at length, 'from Gibraltar in an Indian steamer, a small boat with half a dozen passengers. There was no doctor on board. One evening I was asked to go forward and look at a second-class passenger who was suffering from ... from delirium tremens.'
He stopped in an apologetic way, as if begging her indulgence for the use of those two words in her presence.
'Yes...' she murmured encouragingly.
'It was Huston.'
As he spoke he turned slightly, and glanced down at her. She had entirely regained her gentle composure now, and the colour had returned to her face. Her attention was given to his words with a certain suppressed anxiety, but no surprise whatever.
'Did,' she asked at length—'did he recognise you?'
'No.'