’ The lady’s gaze dwelled thoughtfully on the half-drawn sword and then came up to meet his, an odd look in her eyes. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. A beachcomber in embryo, and she had lent a hand through habit as much as through pity. ‘Jacques?’ she called. Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea. Then he went back to his rooms and lit a cigar. Yes, yes; that was all very well in ordinary cases; but yonder was a soul in travail, if ever she had seen one.
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