“I don't want your heart to be made hard. I want it to be made firm.”
“You couldn't have said anything better than what you have said just now to make it steady,” flowed the murmur of Lingard's voice with something tender in its depth. “Has anybody ever had a friend like this?” he exclaimed, raising his head as if taking the starry night to witness.
“And I ask myself is it possible that there should be another man on earth that I could trust as I trust you. I say to you: Yes! Go and save what you have a right to and don't forget to be merciful. I will not remind you of our perfect innocence. The earth must be small indeed that we should have blundered like this into your life. It's enough to make one believe in fatality. But I can't find it in me to behave like a fatalist, to sit down with folded hands. Had you been another kind of man I might have been too hopeless or too disdainful. Do you know what Mr. d'Alcacer calls you?”
Inside the Cage d'Alcacer, casting curious glances in their direction, saw Lingard shake his head and thought with slight uneasiness: “He is refusing her something.”
“Mr. d'Alcacer's name for you is the 'Man of Fate',” said Mrs. Travers, a little breathlessly.
“A mouthful. Never mind, he is a gentleman. It's what you. . . .”
“I call you all but by your Christian name,” said Mrs. Travers, hastily. “Believe me, Mr. d'Alcacer understands you.”
“He is all right,” interjected Lingard.
“And he is innocent. I remember what you have said—that the innocent must take their chance. Well, then, do what is right.”
“You think it would be right? You believe it? You feel it?”