He whispers right and left and then there
falls a sudden hush. Yes, I wished myself dead. But Mrs. Anthony was a
brick.
Here Mr. Powell fairly burst into tears. "No one could help loving
Captain Anthony. I leave you to imagine what he was to her. Yet before
the week was out it was she who was helping me to pull myself together."
"Is Mrs. Anthony in England now?" I asked after a while.
He wiped his eyes without any false shame. "Oh yes." He began to look
for matches, and while diving for the box under the table added: "And not
very far from here either. That little village up there--you know."
"No! Really! Oh I see!"
Mr. Powell smoked austerely, very detached. But I could not let him off
like this. The sly beggar. So this was the secret of his passion for
sailing about the river, the reason of his fondness for that creek.
"And I suppose," I said, "that you are still as 'enthusiastic' as ever.
Eh? If I were you I would just mention my enthusiasm to Mrs. Anthony.
Why not?"
He caught his falling pipe neatly. But if what the French call
_effarement_ was ever expressed on a human countenance it was on this
occasion, testifying to his modesty, his sensibility and his innocence.
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