ut from a town in which she
wished to be (for whatever reason) and perhaps start some explosive
scandal. And that girl Rose seemed to fear something graver even than a
scandal. But if I were to explain the matter fully to H. he would simply
rejoice in his heart. Nothing would please him more than to have Dona
Rita driven out of Tolosa. What a relief from his anxieties (and his
wife's, too); and if I were to go further, if I even went so far as to
hint at the fears which Rose had not been able to conceal from me, why
then--I went on thinking coldly with a stoical rejection of the most
elementary faith in mankind's rectitude--why then, that accommodating
husband would simply let the ominous messenger have his chance. He would
see there only his natural anxieties being laid to rest for ever.
Horrible? Yes. But I could not take the risk. In a twelvemonth I had
travelled a long way in my mistrust of mankind.

We paced on steadily. I thought: "How on earth am I going to stop you?"
Had this arisen only a month before, when I had the means at hand and
Dominic to confide in, I would have simply kidnapped the fellow. A
little trip to sea would not have done Senor Ortega any harm; though no
doubt it would have been abhorrent to his feelings. But now I had not
the means. I couldn't even tell where my poor Dominic was hiding his
diminished head.

Again I glanced at him sideways. I was the taller of the two and as it
happened I met in the light of the street lamp his own stealthy glance
directed up at me with an agonized expression, an expression that made me
fancy I could see the man's very soul writhing in his body like an
impaled worm. In spite of my utter inexperience I had some notion of the
images that rushed into his mind at the sight of any man who had
approached Dona Rita. It was enough to awaken in any human being a
movement of horrified compassion; but my pity went out not to him but to
Dona Rita. It was for her that I felt sorry; I pitied her for having
that damned soul on her track. I pitied her with tenderness and
indignation, as if this had been both a danger and a dishonour.

I don't mean to say that those thoughts passed through my head
consciously. I had only the resultant, settled feeling. I had, however,
a thought, too. It came on me suddenly, and I asked myself with rage and
astonishment: "Must I then kill that brute?" There didn't seem to be any
alternative. Between him and Dona Rita I co