Powell on taking his eyes off the old gentleman noticed Captain Anthony,
swarthy as an African, by the side of Flora whiter than the lilies, take
his handkerchief out and wipe off his forehead the sweat of anguish--like
a man who is overcome. "And no wonder," commented Mr. Powell here. Then
the captain said, "Hadn't you better go back to your room." This was to
Mrs. Anthony. He tried to smile at her. "Why do you look startled? This
night is like any other night."
"Which," Powell again commented to me earnestly, "was a lie . . . No
wonder he sweated." You see from this the value of Powell's comments.
Mrs. Anthony then said: "Why are you sending me away?"
"Why! That you should go to sleep. That you should rest." And Captain
Anthony frowned. Then sharply, "You stay here, Mr. Powell. I shall want
you presently."
As a matter of fact Powell had not moved. Flora did not mind his
presence. He himself had the feeling of being of no account to those
three people. He was looking at Mrs. Anthony as unabashed as the
proverbial cat looking at a king.
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