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Updated: June 17, 2025
In the taciturn days of the passage he had noticed their reserve even amongst themselves. The professor smoked his pipe moodily in retired spots. Renouard had caught Miss Moorsom's eyes resting on himself more than once, with a peculiar and grave expression. He fancied that she avoided all opportunities of conversation. The maiden lady seemed to nurse a grievance. And now what had he to do?
In the deserted palace he recognised a sinister adaptation by his brain of the long corridors with many doors, in the great building in which his friend's newspaper was lodged on the first floor. The marble head with Miss Moorsom's face! Well! What other face could he have dreamed of? And her complexion was fairer than Parian marble, than the heads of angels.
Then he heard Miss Moorsom's voice replying to the old lady "Oh! I am not easily deceived. I think I may say I have an instinct for truth." He hastened away from that house with his heart full of dread.
"Are you growing weary, Miss Moorsom?" A silence fell on his low spoken question. "Do you mean heart-weary?" sounded Miss Moorsom's voice. "You don't know me, I see." "Ah! Never despair," he muttered. "This, Mr. Renouard, is a work of reparation. I stand for truth here. I can't think of myself."
So that worthy old ass would go up and dodge about the Moorsom's town house, perhaps waylay Miss Moorsom's maid, and then would write to 'Master Arthur' that the young lady looked well and happy, or some such cheerful intelligence. I dare say he wanted to be forgotten, but I shouldn't think he was much cheered by the news. What would you say?"
He was asked to come again, to come often and take part in the counsels of all these people captivated by the sentimental enterprise of a declared love. On taking Miss Moorsom's hand he looked up, would have liked to say something, but found himself voiceless, with his lips suddenly sealed.
Miss Moorsom seized his wrist suddenly, and at that contact fire ran through all his veins, a hot stillness descended upon him in which he heard the blood or the fire beating in his ears. He made a movement as if to rise, but was restrained by the convulsive pressure on his wrist. "No, no." Miss Moorsom's eyes stared black as night, searching the space before her. "The innocent Arthur . . . Yes.
She rose with a sort of ostentation. "It's late and since we are going to sleep on board to-night . . ." she said. "But it does seem so cruel." The professor started up eagerly, knocking the ashes out of his pipe. "Infinitely more sensible, my dear Emma." Renouard waited behind Miss Moorsom's chair. She got up slowly, moved one step forward, and paused looking at the shore.
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