ard. . . .

Almayer laid down his spoon suddenly, and pushing his plate away, threw
himself back in the chair.

. . . Unsafe. Decidedly unsafe. He had no mind to share Lingard's
money with anybody. Lingard's money was Nina's money in a sense. And
if Willems managed to become friendly with the old man it would be
dangerous for him--Almayer. Such an unscrupulous scoundrel! He would
oust him from his position. He would lie and slander. Everything would
be lost. Lost. Poor Nina. What would become of her? Poor child. For her
sake he must remove that Willems. Must. But how? Lingard wanted to be
obeyed. Impossible to kill Willems. Lingard might be angry. Incredible,
but so it was. He might . . .

A wave of heat passed through Almayer's body, flushed his face, and
broke out of him in copious perspiration. He wriggled in his chair, and
pressed his hands together under the table. What an awful prospect!
He fancied he could see Lingard and Willems reconciled and going away
arm-in-arm, leaving him alone in this God-forsaken hole--in Sambir--in
this deadly swamp! And all his sacrifices, the sacrifice of his
independence, of his best years, his surrender to Lingard's fancies and
caprices, would go for nothing! Horrible! Then he thought of his
little daughter--his daughter!--and the ghastliness of his supposition
overpowered him. He had a deep emotion, a sudden emotion that made him
feel quite faint at the idea of that young life spoiled before it had
fairly begun. His dear child's life! Lying back in his chair he covered
his face with both his hands.

Ali glanced down at him and said, unconcernedly--"Master finish?"

Almayer was lost in the immensity of his commiseration for himself, for
his daughter, who was--perhaps--not going to be the richest woman in
the world--notwithstanding Lingard's promises. He did not understand the
other's question, and muttered through his fingers in a doleful tone--

"What did you say? What? Finish what?"

"Clear up meza," explained Ali.

"Clear up!" burst out Almayer, with incomprehensible exasperation.
"Devil take you and the table. Stupid! Chatterer! Chelakka! Get out!"

He leaned forward, glaring at his head man, then sank back in his seat
with his arms hanging straight down on each side of the chair. And he
sat motionless in a meditation so concentrated and so absorbing, with
all his power of thought so deep within himself, that all expression
disappeared from his face in an aspect of sta