“One man at least dwells in it,” said d'Alcacer, lightly, “and if he is to be believed there are other men, full of evil intentions.”
“Do you think it is true?” Mrs. Travers asked.
Before answering d'Alcacer tried to see the expression of her face but the obscurity was too profound already.
“How can one see a dark truth on such a dark night?” he said, evasively. “But it is easy to believe in evil, here or anywhere else.”
She seemed to be lost in thought for a while.
“And that man himself?” she asked.
After some time d'Alcacer began to speak slowly. “Rough, uncommon, decidedly uncommon of his kind. Not at all what Don Martin thinks him to be. For the rest—mysterious to me. He is your countryman after all—”
She seemed quite surprised by that view.
“Yes,” she said, slowly. “But you know, I can not—what shall I say?—imagine him at all. He has nothing in common with the mankind I know. There is nothing to begin upon. How does such a man live? What are his thoughts? His actions? His affections? His—”
“His conventions,” suggested d'Alcacer. “That would include everything.”