“Poor Beadon! He was an excellent councilor.”
“And an excellent husband.”
“But he made a great fool of himself.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Clarke, without any animus. “And so Mr. Leith made a sad impression upon you?”
“A few men can be tormented. He is one of them. He has gone down into the dark places. Perhaps the Furies are with him there, the attendants of the Goddess of Death.”
He glanced at his companion. She was standing absolutely still, gazing down into the water. Her white face looked beautiful, but strangely haggard and implacable in the night. And for a moment his mind dwelt on the image conjured up by his last words, and he thought of her as the Goddess of Death.
“Well,” he said, “I must go, or Delia will be wondering. She knows your power.”
“And knows I am too faithful to her not to resist yours.”
He pressed her hand, then said rather abruptly:
“Are you feverish to-night?”