Mrs. Krause's dark eyes lit up with undoubted pleasure—“I must tell her that—”
“Is she living on Tarawa, then?”
“Yes, in this village, and she is in the house at this moment. She would like to speak to you. Do you mind her coming in?” “Indeed, I shall be very pleased.” My hostess stood at the table for a few moments, with her face averted from me. Then she turned and spoke to me, and to my astonishment I saw that she was struggling hard to suppress her tears. I rose and led her to a seat.
“You are not well, Mrs. Krause,” I said. “Sit down, and let me call one of your servants.”
“No, please do not do that, Mr. Sherry. But I will sit down, and—and I should like to ask you a question.”
She was trembling as she spoke, but suddenly whipped out her handkerchief, dried her tears, and sat up erect.
“Mr. Sherry, you are an Englishman, or an American—I do not know which—but I am sure that you are a gentleman and will truthfully answer the question I ask. Will you not?”
“I will, indeed, if it is in my power to do so,” I replied earnestly.
She placed her hand on mine and looked at me steadily.
“Mr. Sherry, you and I have been talking on various matters for more than an hour. Have I, in your opinion, given you the impression that I am mentally deranged? Look at me. Tell me—for I am an unhappy, heartbroken woman, whose life for two years has been a daily torture and misery—what you do think. Sometimes I imagine that what my husband says may be true—and then I collapse and wish I were dead.”