Durrell's fury of words had a numbing effect upon the girl. She stood mute, staring, astonished by the unreasoning violence of the man who had given his life to accumulating wisdom out of books. Then she drew back toward the door, opened it, and escaped.
She went to her own room, realising in a numb way that her father had spoken words to her that could never be forgotten. The very violence of his anger had been an outrage, its arbitrariness an answer to her suspicions.
Then she heard De Rothan's voice on the terrace below. He was talking to David Barfoot, but David would never consent to understand him.
The voice sent a shiver of repulsion through Nance. She turned and locked the door.
"Mees Nance, Mees Nance, where is the sunlight?"
He was calling up at her window, and she hated him for not being another man.
Durrell's footsteps came down the gallery, and he joined De Rothan on the terrace. The Frenchman could have done with other company, but he was drawn sharply toward sterner issues.
Durrell took him into one of the dark paths through the shrubbery.
"The girl has begun to suspect us."
"What, sweet Nance?"