‘How I love them!’ she said, treading the initial step of her walk onwards with a vehemence that walking did not demand.
‘So do I—especially one,’ said a voice at her elbow; and a man wheeled round her, and looked in her face, which had been fully exposed to the moon.
‘You—who are you?’ she asked.
‘Don’t you remember, ma’am? We walked some way together towards Overcombe earlier in the summer.’ Matilda looked more closely, and perceived that the speaker was Derriman, in plain clothes. He continued, ‘You are one of the ladies of the theatre, I know. May I ask why you said in such a queer way that you loved that couple?’
‘In a queer way?’
‘Well, as if you hated them.’
‘I don’t mind your knowing that I have good reason to hate them. You do too, it seems?’
‘That man,’ said Festus savagely, ‘came to me one night about that very woman; insulted me before I could put myself on my guard, and ran away before I could come up with him and avenge myself. The woman tricks me at every turn! I want to part ’em.’
‘Then why don’t you? There’s a splendid opportunity. Do you see that soldier walking along? He’s a marine; he looks into the gallery of the theatre every night: and he’s in connexion with the press-gang that came ashore just now from the frigate lying in Portland Roads. They are often here for men.’
‘Yes. Our boatmen dread ’em.’