"And to hear the word weariness pronounced in this connection
surprises me. And from a man too who, I understand, has never
counted the cost."

"You are pleased to tease me," he said, directly he had recovered
his voice and had mastered his anger. It was as if Professor
Moorsom had dropped poison in his ear which was spreading now and
tainting his passion, his very jealousy. He mistrusted every word
that came from those lips on which his life hung. "How can you
know anything of men who do not count the cost?" he asked in his
gentlest tones.

"From hearsay--a little."

"Well, I assure you they are like the others, subject to suffering,
victims of spells. . . ."

"One of them, at least, speaks very strangely."

She dismissed the subject after a short silence. "Mr. Renouard, I
had a disappointment this morning. This mail brought me a letter
from the widow of the old butler--you know. I expected to learn
that she had heard from--from here. But no. No letter arrived
home since we left."

Her voice was calm. His jealousy couldn't stand much more of this
sort of talk; but he was glad that nothing had turned up to help
the search; glad blindly, unreasonably--only because it would keep
her longer in his sight--since she wouldn't give up.