He did not reply, and she continued, ‘If they say and prove that Eunice is indeed living—and dear, you know she is—she is sure to come back.’
This remark seemed to awaken and irritate him to speech. Again, as he had done a hundred times during their residence together, he categorized the events connected with the fire at the Three Tranters. He dwelt on every incident of that night’s history, and endeavoured, with an anxiety which was extraordinary in the apparent circumstances, to prove that his wife must, by the very nature of things, have perished in the flames. She arose from her seat, crossed the hearthrug, and set herself to soothe him; then she whispered that she was still as unbelieving as ever. ‘Come, supposing she escaped—just supposing she escaped—where is she?’ coaxed the lady.
‘Why are you so curious continually?’ said Manston.
‘Because I am a woman and want to know. Now where is she?’
‘In the Flying Isle of San Borandan.’
‘Witty cruelty is the cruellest of any. Ah, well—if she is in England, she will come back.’
‘She is not in England.’
‘But she will come back?’
‘No, she won’t.... Come, madam,’ he said, arousing himself, ‘I shall not answer any more questions.’
‘Ah—ah—ah—she is not dead,’ the woman murmured again poutingly.