The pause lasted but a moment. Neither suspected what was in the soul of the other or that three destinies hung on a word. A glance of affection would have brought Fargus shamelessly to her knees, a flash of courage and she would have confessed and been forgiven. The ironical moment passed. She did not quite dare. But to distract him she said gently:
"I'm going to tell Mr. Bofinger to give you as good advice as he gave me. And by the way, what has become of him all this time?"
That speech decided two fates. In Fargus every human emotion froze. From the rage of subjection he passed violently to the rage of murder. Where a moment before he had been on the point of stretching forth his hands in supplication he was now shaken with a blinding passion to possess himself with something murderous, with which to rush on her and blot out forever both her treachery and his infatuation.
"Fargus!" she cried in horror. "What is it? Why do you look so?"
"Me?" he mumbled, thrusting away from him the knife by his plate with a gesture she could not understand. "What—what was it?"
"I asked if Mr. Bofinger was away," she said, following him in alarm. "And why you haven't seen him."
"Ah, Bofinger!" he cried, and his fist cracked on the table like the sound of a curse.
"What jealousy!" she thought to herself, and reassured she began to laugh openly.
"Why do you laugh?" he demanded fiercely.
"Monster of jealousy!" she said, smiling. "What a lot of trouble that naughty remark of mine has made!"