“Do you mean to say,” asked d'Alcacer, “that you have been winding it up every evening?”
Mr. Travers looked up from his bedstead and he also seemed surprised. “Why! I suppose I have.” He kept silent for a while. “It isn't so much blind habit as you may think. My habits are the outcome of strict method. I had to order my life methodically. You know very well, my dear d'Alcacer, that without strict method I would not have been able to get through my work and would have had no time at all for social duties, which, of course, are of very great importance. I may say that, materially, method has been the foundation of my success in public life. There were never any empty moments in my day. And now this! . . .” He looked all round the Cage. . . . “Where's my wife?” he asked.
“I was talking to her only a moment ago,” answered d'Alcacer. “I don't know the time. My watch is on board the yacht; but it isn't late, you know.”
Mr. Travers flung off with unwonted briskness the light cotton sheet which covered him. He buttoned hastily the tunic which he had unfastened before lying down, and just as d'Alcacer was expecting him to swing his feet to the deck impetuously, he lay down again on the pillow and remained perfectly still.
D'Alcacer waited awhile and then began to pace the Cage. After a couple of turns he stopped and said, gently:
“I am afraid, Travers, you are not very well.”
“I don't know what illness is,” answered the voice from the pillow to the great relief of d'Alcacer who really had not expected an answer. “Good health is a great asset in public life. Illness may make you miss a unique opportunity. I was never ill.”
All this came out deadened in tone, as if the speaker's face had been buried in the pillow. D'Alcacer resumed his pacing.
“I think I asked you where my wife was,” said the muffled voice.
With great presence of mind d'Alcacer kept on pacing the Cage as if he had not heard.—“You know, I think she is mad,” went on the muffled voice. “Unless I am.”