“Does that excuse a man? That he has a frightful physical energy, and that it turns inward?”
“I’ve nothing to do with excuses. But, suppose that that was the case. Suppose, too, that he had but a moment to decide in Salcombe, between a lie, you, and the possibility of a new life, and the truth, arrest, and the certainty of disgrace. He chose you, the lie, and the possibility. He lied to you. The moment he told the first lie, you became, in his eyes in a sense, an enemy to beware of, an enemy who must be kept from the truth at all costs.”
“Yes. I have seen that, of course. And the lie grew all through the voyage.”
“He was afraid to run the risk of losing you, by telling you the truth.”
“That was not much of a compliment to me, was it?”
“All through that voyage, Olivia, we were in terror of being arrested on arrival. It was in our thoughts night and day. We used to sit in my cabin there, planning what we could do, if we found a warrant waiting for us. The strain made him reckless.”
“Why should it have made him reckless?”
“Because there was no one on board, except a few inferiors, who could console him. He could not confide in you. He had lied to you. We were not his sort. There was no one else to whom he could turn.”
“Except some inferiors, to whom he turned.”
“Yes, Olivia.”