Mrs. Travers' alarm and mistrust were replaced by an immense curiosity, burning, yet quiet, too, as if before the inevitable work of destiny. She looked downward at Lingard. His head was bared, and, with one hand upon the ship's side, he seemed to be thinking deeply.
“Because you had something more to tell us,” Mrs. Travers suggested, gently.
“Yes,” he said in a low tone and without moving in the least.
“Will you come on board and wait?” she asked.
“Who? I!” He lifted his head so quickly as to startle her. “I have nothing to say to him; and I'll never put my foot on board this craft. I've been told to go. That's enough.”
“He is accustomed to be addressed deferentially,” she said after a pause, “and you—”
“Who is he?” asked Lingard, simply.
These three words seemed to her to scatter her past in the air—like smoke. They robbed all the multitude of mankind of every vestige of importance. She was amazed to find that on this night, in this place, there could be no adequate answer to the searching naiveness of that question.
“I didn't ask for much,” Lingard began again. “Did I? Only that you all should come on board my brig for five days. That's all. . . . Do I look like a liar? There are things I could not tell him. I couldn't explain—I couldn't—not to him—to no man—to no man in the world—”
His voice dropped.