XIII
EVERYONE MUST PAY
Achilles saw her, and moved forward swiftly. But she ignored him—her eyes were on the short, square man seated at the table, and she came to him, bending close. “You must pay, Phil,” she said. The words held themselves in her reddened eyes, and her fingers picked a little at the lace on her dress... then they trembled and reached out to him.
“You must pay!” she said hoarsely.
But the man did not stir.
The woman lifted her eyes and looked at Achilles. There was no recognition in the glance—only a kind of impatience that he was there. The Greek moved toward the door—but the great man stayed him. “Don’t go,” he said. He reached up a hand to his wife, laying it on her shoulder. “We can’t pay, dearest,” he said slowly.
Her open lips regarded him and the quick tears were in her eyes. She brushed them back, and looked at him—“Let me pay!” she said fiercely, “I will give up—everything—and pay!” She had crouched to him, her groping fingers on his arm.
Above her head the glances of the two men met.
Her husband bent to her, speaking very slowly... to a child.
“Listen, Louie—they might give her back to-day—if we paid... but they would take her again—to-morrow—next week—next year. We shall never be safe if we pay. Nobody will be safe—”