“Poor Mr. d'Alcacer,” murmured Mrs. Travers.
“A man without any ideas of duty or usefulness,” said Mr. Travers, acidly. “What are you pitying him for?”
“Why! For finding himself in this position out of mere good-nature. He had nothing to expect from joining our voyage, no advantage for his political ambitions or anything of the kind. I suppose you asked him on board to break our tete-a-tete which must have grown wearisome to you.”
“I am never bored,” declared Mr. Travers. “D'Alcacer seemed glad to come. And, being a Spaniard, the horrible waste of time cannot matter to him in the least.”
“Waste of time!” repeated Mrs. Travers, indignantly.
“He may yet have to pay for his good nature with his life.”
Mr. Travers could not conceal a movement of anger.
“Ah! I forgot those assumptions,” he said between his clenched teeth. “He is a mere Spaniard. He takes this farcical conspiracy with perfect nonchalance. Decayed races have their own philosophy.”
“He takes it with a dignity of his own.”
“I don't know what you call his dignity. I should call it lack of self-respect.”