“Why do you not smoke, Morgan?” she asked.
Even a little thing like that pleased me; she had not forgotten that I had always been devoted to the weed.
I hastened to assure her that I had no desire to indulge, since I had been smoking nearly the whole evening.
How could I break the ice, how ask her to tell me what she had promised—the story of her coming to this region of the world?
What a strange position to be in! Three feet from me sat the woman I loved, the woman whom the law had given to me for my own, and whom I had called by the sacred name of wife, yet I dared not put out a hand to touch her any more than if she were the veriest stranger.
Secretly I chafed and fretted at the chains that held me, and in my heart I groaned.
Hildegarde it was who spoke first.
“How long had you been in Bolivar, Morgan?” she asked, showing that her thoughts had been going back to what we had endured.
“Just four days. I had intended sailing by to-morrow, but the steamer came ahead of time.”
She did not ask what the steamer had to do with my movements—nor did I think to insist on explaining that point, which would no doubt have proved the part of wisdom.