Almayer grasped the sides of his seat, his eyes and mouth opened wide.
“What? Why!” he exclaimed, bewildered.
“Willems’—wife,” repeated Lingard distinctly. “You ain’t deaf, are you? The wife of Willems. Just so. As to why! There was a promise. And I did not know what had happened here.”
“What is it. You’ve been giving her money, I bet,” cried Almayer.
“Well, no!” said Lingard, deliberately. “Although I suppose I shall have to . . .”
Almayer groaned.
“The fact is,” went on Lingard, speaking slowly and steadily, “the fact is that I have . . . I have brought her here. Here. To Sambir.”
“In heaven’s name! why?” shouted Almayer, jumping up. The chair tilted and fell slowly over. He raised his clasped hands above his head and brought them down jerkily, separating his fingers with an effort, as if tearing them apart. Lingard nodded, quickly, several times.
“I have. Awkward. Hey?” he said, with a puzzled look upwards.
“Upon my word,” said Almayer, tearfully. “I can’t understand you at all. What will you do next! Willems’ wife!”