THE BEAST IN THE JUNGLE
thing. I'm your dull woman, a part of the daily bread for which you pray at church. That covers your tracks more than anything."
"And what covers yours?" asked Marcher, whom his dull woman could mostly to this extent amuse. "I see of course what you mean by your saving me, in one way and another, so far as other people are concerned—I've seen it all along. Only, what is it that saves you? I often think, you know, of that."
She looked as if she sometimes thought of that too, but in rather a different way. "Where other people, you mean, are concerned?"
"Well, you're really so in with me, you know—as a sort of result of my being so in with yourself. I mean of my having such an immense regard for you, being so tremendously grateful for all you've done for me. I sometimes ask myself if it's quite fair. Fair I mean to have so involved and—since one may say it—interested you. I almost feel as if you hadn't really had time to do anything else."
"Anything else but be interested?" she asked. "Ah, what else does one ever want to be? If I've been 'watching' with you, as we long ago agreed that I was to do, watching is always in itself an absorption."
"Oh, certainly," John Marcher said, "if you hadn't had your curiosity———! Only, doesn't it sometimes come to you, as time goes on, that your curiosity is not being particularly repaid?"
May Bartram had a pause. "Do you ask that, by any chance, because you feel at all that yours isn't? I mean because you have to wait so long."
Oh, he understood what she meant. "For the thing to happen that never does happen? For the beast to jump out? No, I'm just where I was about it. It isn't a matter as to which I can choose, I can decide for a change. It isn't one as to which there can be a change. It's in the lap of the gods. One's in the
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