She knew that in the natural course of events
it was almost certain that this man knew Jem personally. It would have
been easy to mention his name; but the wound was too fresh, her heart was
too sore to bear the sting of hearing him discussed.
For a second Seymour Michael hovered on the brink. His lips almost framed
the name. Good almost triumphed over evil.
And the girl sitting there--broken-hearted, quiet and strong, as only
women can be--never knew how near she was. Sometimes it seems as if the
cruelty of fate were unnecessary, as if the word too little or the word
too much, which has the power to alter a whole life, were withheld or
spoken merely to further a Providential experiment.
"Yes," said Michael, "I hate India."
And the spell was broken, the moment lost for ever. Seymour Michael had
kept silence, and elsewhere, perhaps, at that very moment his doom was
spoken. Who can tell? We are offered chances--we are, if you will, the
puppets of an experiment--and surely there must be a moment which
decides.
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