Charley looked the Curb steadily in the eyes. He was thinking how simply
this man had said these things; as if, indeed, they were part of his
life; as though it were usual speech with him, a something that belonged,
not an acquired language. There was the old impulse to ask a question,
and he put the monocle to his eye, but his lips did not open, and the
eye-glass fell again. He had seen familiarity with sacred names and
things in the uneducated, in excited revivalists, worked up to a state
clairvoyant and conversational with the Creator; but he had never heard
an educated man speak as this man did.

At last Charley said: "Your brother--Portugais tells me that your
brother, the surgeon, has gone away. I should have liked to thank him
--if no more."

"I have written him of your good recovery. He will be glad, I know. But
my brother, from one stand-point--a human stand-point--had scruples.
These I did not share, but they were strong in him, Monsieur. Marcel
asked himself--" He stopped suddenly and looked towards Jo.

Charley saw the look, and said quickly: "Speak plainly. Portugais is my
friend."

Jo turned slowly towards him, and a light seemed to come to his eyes--a
shining something that resolved itself into a dog-like fondness, an utter
obedience, a strange intense gratitude.

"Marcel asked himself," the Cure continued, "whether you would thank him
for bringing you back to--to life and memory. I fear he was trying to
see what I should say--I fear so. Marcel said, 'Suppose that he should