"I suppose that she must have been quite, quite young when—when those dreadful things happened that Willy talked about in his delirium?"
"Is it possible"—indignantly—"that you take the ravings of a fever-patient au pied de la lettre?"
"No, I do not; but"—with an obstinate sticking to her point—"there was a substratum of truth in them; that was only too evident."
Jim shuts his teeth tight together. His vow of silence is harder to keep than he had thought.
"Since he came to himself he has never mentioned her to me," continues his companion anxiously; "has he to you?"
"No."
"I quite tremble whenever he opens his lips, lest he should be going to begin the subject, and one could not contradict him yet awhile; he is so quixotic, it is quite likely that he may have some distorted idea that her being—how shall I say?—flétrie—is an additional reason for standing by her, rehabilitating her, marrying her. He is so chivalrous."
They have left the Prison Civile and the Zouave Barracks behind them. A longer interval than that usually supposed to elapse between a remark and its rejoinder has passed, before Jim can bring himself to utter the following sentence with the calmness which he wishes:
"Has it never occurred to you that she may be chivalrous too?"
Perhaps Mrs. Byng does not readily find a response to this question; perhaps it sets her off upon a train of speculation which does not conduce to garrulity. Certain it is that, for the rest of the drive, she is as silent as Jim could wish her. It is a sharp surprise to him two days later to be mysteriously called outside the sick man's door by her, in order to be informed that she has invited Miss Le Marchant to accompany her on a drive.