“It is a quarrel, and the picturesque man is angry. He is hurt.”
Mrs. Travers' fan rested on her knees, and she sat still as if waiting to hear more.
“Do you think I ought to make an effort for peace?” asked d'Alcacer.
She did not answer, and after waiting a little, he insisted:
“What is your opinion? Shall I try to mediate—as a neutral, as a benevolent neutral? I like that man with the beard.”
The interchange of angry phrases went on aloud, amidst general consternation.
“I would turn my back on you only I am thinking of these poor devils here,” growled Lingard, furiously. “Did you ask them how they feel about it?”
“I ask no one,” spluttered Mr. Travers. “Everybody here depends on my judgment.”
“I am sorry for them then,” pronounced Lingard with sudden deliberation, and leaning forward with his arms crossed on his breast.
At this Mr. Travers positively jumped, and forgot himself so far as to shout: