RED PAINT
Over on the other side of the city, however, on the wide stretch of
sandy waste behind an outlying dispensary which had been turned into a
segregation camp, the advocates of certainty and uncertainty had
changed places. Here, in the little grass-screened yard, six feet
square, which Jack Raymond's kindliness had secured for the ordinary
reed hut to which poor crushed old Auntie Khôjee had been brought, it
was a scavenger who doubted, a woman who--even amid tears--had faith.
'Lo! brother,' said Khôjee in gentle reproof, as she sat on the string
bed hiding her grief-blurred face discreetly from the tottering old man
who had been sent in to sweep out the premises; an old man bowed,
palsied, senile, yet still, as a male creature, claiming that calm
perfunctory drawing of a veil an inch or two more over a withered
cheek, 'thou shouldst not repeat such tales; they do harm. As I have
told thee before, God knows what happened was not the fault of the
_Huzoors_. It was Jehân's, and mine, and Lateef's; if indeed it was
ought but God's will. And lies will not bring her back again! It was
lies that killed her, Noormahal, Light of Palaces!'--a sob choked the
quavering voice, but she struggled on truthfully--'and the _Huzoors_
were kind in concealing what they could. What use to drag the honour
of the King's House in the dust? Even Jehân saw that and held his
peace. It is ye--ye of the basket and broom--strangers--not of the
house knowing the honour of the house as in old time--who have done ill
in talking. And of the girl too. Lo! what thou sayest of her and the
pearls may be true; but I know naught of it, and Jehân hath lied ever.
Then for the bracelets! Have I not worn one and cried for death? But
death has not come, as thou sayest it comes; though I have worn _this_
these two days.'
She held out her thin arm as she spoke, in order to show the _râm
rucki_ which Jack Raymond, in his efforts to reassure her, had fastened
round her wrist.
The old man ceased sweeping to peer at it, then chuckled wheezily.
'Oho! Oho! _bibi!_ and wherefore not, since that is a _râm rucki_ which
all know of old! But this other I speak of is new. I tell thee it hath
the death-mark on it, and the arrow-head which claims all for the
_Sirkar's_ use. Its like none have ever seen before. They sold it
deceitfully as safeguard yesterday at Sheik Chilli's fair, and men
bought it for their wives and children--_Ala!_ the tyranny of it, the
cleverness! who can stand against their ways? So now it is proved a
sign of death indeed; all who wear it, all who have worn it, are in the
_Huzoor's_ power. When they are wanted, they will die.'
Despite her disbelief--a disbelief founded largely on her own kindly
grateful heart--Aunt Khôjee felt a cold creep in her old bones. 'How
canst tell by now? Some may escape,' she quavered.
The old scavenger waggled his head wisely. 'This I know, _bibi_, that
in the _Kuteeks'_ and _Lohars'_ houses--yea! and in others too where
the sickness was rife, for, see you, it hath been in the city this
fortnight past, though folk held their tongues--all bought these
bracelets for safety. All! and it is from these very houses that the
dead come! Am I not _Dom_ by craft, though I grow too old and crooked
to straighten even dead limbs? Have I not seen? I tell thee, _bibi_,
not one of the corpses taken out of the city this morning but had the
bracelet on its wrist! Ay! and not one of those carried by force to the
_hospitarl_ but had it too!'
It was an absolutely true statement, even if capable of a more natural
explanation.
'But _Rahmân-sahib_, the bracelet-brother, did not give them
bracelets?' protested Aunt Khôjee, falling back fearfully on what still
seemed incredible.
'God knows,' mumbled the superannuated streaker of dead things. 'Mayhap
he did not sell them, but it was by order. A Hindoo in the city, Govind
by name, hath a paper with the order written on it, and signed by the
_Lat-sahib_ and _Wictoria-Queen_. So there is no lie there, _bibi!_'
He passed out resentfully, driving the refuse he had swept up, into the
world beyond the six-feet-square yard, with a last flourish of his
broom.
Khôjee, left forlorn, sat looking at her _râm rucki_ doubtfully. Could
the tale be true? Could the _Huzoors_ have been capable of such a
devilish treachery? Even so, he, _Rahmân-sahib_, had not been so. His
bracelet had brought safety. Even after two days, Auntie Khôjee
recognised this. The _daghdar-sahib_ had laughed at her fear of plague;
they had given her seclusion of the strictest; a Musulman woman, who
had called her 'my princess,' had brought her better food than she had
had for years, and even Lateef had been allowed to come during the day
and talk to her. Last, not least, the _daghdar_ himself had respected
her veil, and sent a miss-_sahiba_ instead--a miss in a curious
dress, who had let her cry about Noormahal, and comforted her with
cardamoms--real cardamoms. It had almost been a visit of condolence!
Then she was told that in eight days she might go back--though not to
the wide dreary house, since it had already been utilised as a
hospital. But _Rahmân-sahib_ had promised to settle that from the rent
of this, Jehân should pay for a more suitable lodging, and also allow
her a proper pension.
A bracelet-brother indeed! Yet lying tongues traduced him and she, a
bracelet-sister, could do nothing but listen to them! She wept softly
over her own ingratitude, so that Lateefa, finding her thus engaged,
attempted consolation on the old, old lines which belong to all faiths,
all people, by saying that it was God's will, that Noormahal was taken
from the evil to come, that she was at peace; until, finding his
comfort unavailing, and being pressed for time, he told the old lady
gently that she must not expect any more of his companionship that day,
since, the term of his more rigorous segregation being over he was free
to go out, provided he returned by sundown.
Then to his surprise she suddenly ceased her curious whimpering wail,
and looked up at him swiftly.
'Thou canst go out! Then thou shalt go to him and tell him of the lies!
Yea! and tell him that I, Khôjeeya Khânum, wear his gift, and--and will
never forget him, and his beauty, and his kindness!'
'Tell _him?_ echoed the kite-maker, wondering if he stood on his head
or his heels when he was asked to take so fervent a message to a man,
from so discreet a lady as Aunt Khôjee. It did not take long, however,
to make him understand; for the old scavenger had swept out the men's
quarters also. But, to the dear old lady's disgust, he was inclined to
laugh at, and be sceptical over, both her indignation and that of those
who had bought the amulet. The tale was not likely to be true. Why
should the _Huzoors_ go such a roundabout way to work when they had
soldiers and guns? To be sure, these were few in Nushapore at the
present moment, and folk were saying that the talk about Sobrai and
Noormahal and Dilarâm--God curse the low-born pryers who know not how
to keep silence for decency's sake!--had set the _pultan_ (native
regiment), which was a high-class Mohammedan one, by the ears; but
there were plenty of _rigiments_ close by. And, if it _was_ true, what
good would a message to _Rahmân-sahib_ do? It would only make him
angry. And if the tale were a lie, what would he care? Did the
_Huzoors_ ever care what folk said? Never! That was why they ruled the
land.
But Aunt Khôjee was firm; even when Lateef--who had told her
everything--protested that he had no time to lose; that if he was to
have any chance of getting at the ring, which, he trusted, was still
concealed among the kites, it must be before their selection for the
flying match. Since, once they were chosen, none might touch them till
the 'Sovereignty of Air' was decided. Even now he might be too late for
the courtyard, and have to go to the turret, ready to seize his chance
during the trials. And what is more--here he gave a glance at the
sky--if he knew aught of kite-flying, those with fair ballast would
surely be chosen to-day; and therefore, of course, the one which had
the ring hidden in the guise of a bit of brick within a little calico
bag!
'Then it is safe so far. It will be guarded till evening, and then thou
canst see to it,' asserted Aunt Khôjee autocratically.
'Not till after sundown, mayhap, and I must return then; and who can
tell what may happen if it is left longer,' persisted Lateef.
'Let what may happen! The _daghdars_ will not kill thee--they are kind;
and what is the ring, now, but empty honour, since there is no heir?
But the other is different. _Rahmân-sahib_ is bracelet-brother. He hath
been kind--we owe him this. Wouldst thou be even as Jehân, Lateef,
willing to steal honour from any?' Never in her long life had Aunt
Khôjee been so obstinate.
'I care not, so Jehân doth not steal the ring,' muttered Lateef
revengefully. 'Nay, sister, I will not go!'
She bent towards him and laid a wistful hand on his. 'But if God give
him back honour, Lateef, should we hinder it?--we who have sinned also?
Not so, brother! Let Him decide; and for the rest, help _me_. Lo! for
all her years, this is the first bond between Khôjeeya Khânum, King's
Daughter, and a man. Let her keep it faithful, unstained.'
Lateef gave an odd sound, some part of it being his thin musical laugh.
'Sure, sister, thou wouldst make a saint even of a kite-flyer!' he said
lightly. 'So be it! I will go by way of the courtyard. Then if the
kites be gone already--as I misdoubt me--I will to _Rahmân-sahib's_
with thy message; so to the turret--or wait till evening as thou
sayest. 'Tis a chance either way; and mayhap, if I give God His will
with Lateef whom He made, He may give Lateef his will with the kites he
made! That is but fair, sister.'
'Yea, brother,' assented Khôjeeya piously, not in the least
understanding what he said. 'So it will come to pass, surely, since He
is just.'
Thus it happened, an hour or two after this, when Grace Arbuthnot was
once more standing beside her husband's office table, as she had stood
a few weeks before with the telegram which withdrew the confidential
plan of campaign in her hand, that a card was brought in to Sir George
by the orderly. He put it on the table with a frown, ere looking at his
wife again, and finishing his remark--
'Tear it up, my dear, and throw it into the waste-paper basket! Why
should you worry about the thing? I only showed it to you to amuse you,
and because it was a good example of the lies the natives will tell,
the threats they will use--on occasion.'
Lady Arbuthnot, who was once more holding a paper in her hand, looked
up from it. Her face was pale.
'I think you ought to inquire, George, I really do. If there is
anything----'
'My dear child!' interrupted her husband impatiently, what can there
be? Didn't I burn the thing with my own hands? You mustn't get nervous,
Grace; I've noticed you have been so ever since--well! for some little
time past. And, of course, all that about the pearls, and the loathsome
imbroglio regarding them, is annoying. I should like to kick Lucanaster
and Jehân Aziz and the lot! Anything more unfortunate at this juncture
can scarcely be imagined; but there is nothing to worry about.' He laid
his hand on her shoulder as he rose to touch the hand-bell. 'And now,
my dear,' he added, 'I have to see Mr. Raymond--he has written
"important" on his card.'
'Mr. Raymond!' echoed Grace, her face flushing, then growing pale
again. 'Oh, George!' she paused for a moment, then spoke more
calmly--'George! I want you to do something for me. I want you to
consult Mr. Raymond about--about this matter--will you?'
Sir George stood rather stiff, and the placidly obstinate look came to
his mouth. 'Mr. Raymond?' he echoed in his turn. 'Why on earth should
Mr. Raymond know anything about it--unless you have been speaking to
him?'
She had realised her slip before the suggestion came, a suggestion
whose truth she was too proud to deny, even though her husband's
displeasure at the thought was unmistakable. 'I _have_ spoken to him,'
she replied steadily. 'I told him your opinion as to the danger should
the hints in the native press prove to have any foundation; and he
quite agreed.'
'I feel flattered,' remarked Sir George coldly, as he sat down again.
'Perhaps, my dear, when you are ready to go, you will ring the bell.
Mr. Raymond may be in a hurry.'
Grace Arbuthnot's heart sank within her. A woman--especially a sensible
woman--can hardly live for ten years in close and affectionate
companionship with a man without having seen him at his best and his
worst; and that the latter was the case with Sir George now his wife
recognised instantly; albeit with a clear comprehension of the cause,
which made her feel a pathetic regret that she should thus handicap a
man, as a rule so just, so unbiassed. And that, too, at a moment when
much might depend on his being free from personal feeling; since Jack
Raymond, she knew, would not have come lightly. Some woman might have
fought against facts. Grace was too wise for that. She simply rang the
bell, and passed into her own sitting-room with that pathetic regret.
It seemed so pitiful after these long years to find antagonism in these
two men; and yet what right had she to feel scornful? Was it not
bitterly true that she herself could not forget?--not quite!
Seated at her writing-table, her head on her hand, she tried to argue
the matter out with herself, and failed. Only this seemed clear. That
once you admitted certain emotions to be inevitable, it was very hard
to set limits to them. Surely, therefore, there must be a firmer basis
than the conventional one; but what was it?
She roused herself, after a time, to the consideration that no matter
how the state of tension between herself, her husband, and Jack Raymond
came about--and that such a tension did exist, she was again too proud
to deny--it must not be allowed to interfere with matters more
important; and that it might do so was only too palpable; all the more
so because those two, especially her husband, would be loth to admit
the very existence of such a possibility.
Therefore, she herself must see and talk to Mr. Raymond. Nay, more! she
must get him to do what her husband would not do: make inquiries
concerning this threat of publishing some documents if payment
for it was not made, which was contained in the letter which--half
unconsciously--she had brought away with her in her hand from the
office.
She passed out into the anteroom, told the attendant orderly that
Raymond _sahib_, on leaving Sir George, was not to be shown out as
usual by the office entry, but through the suite of reception-rooms,
and then went thither herself to await and waylay him.
Being seldom used in the morning, these rooms leading the one from the
other into a hall beyond, and so to the grand portico, were dim and
silent, the jalousies closed, the great _jardinières_, full of flowers,
mysteriously sweet in the shadowy corners. And Grace herself, ready for
church save for the bunch of flowers and lace that go to make up the
headgear of a _grande toilette_, looked mysteriously sweet also in the
curves of a cushioned chair. She suited the vista of rooms, so empty of
trivial nicknacks, so restful in its perfect blending of comfort and
beauty. Comfort, not luxury; beauty, not decoration. Cold in its marble
floors, warm in its oriental embroideries, and, above all things,
charming in both its scented chilliness and scented warmth.
Perhaps she knew that she suited it, and that it suited her, since
the hope of this decides the disposition of furniture in most
drawing-rooms. Perhaps, in a way, she calculated on this, also on the
effect of memory, in reducing Jack Raymond to obedience, since it was
in these very rooms, scarcely different even in detail, that the most
part of those two happy years had been spent. Such unconscious
calculations are quite inevitable when women hold, as they are taught
to hold as sacred, the dogma that true womanhood should never permit
manhood to forget that it is woman.
She certainly succeeded in this instance, and her words--'Oh! Mr.
Raymond, I am so glad. I want to speak to you so much'--brought the
latter back into the past with a vengeance, as, inwardly cursing
himself for having taken the trouble to come and warn Sir George of
something he thought serious, he mechanically followed the orderly's
lead.
She scarcely looked a day older; she certainly was more beautiful. And
surely, the last time he had seen her in those rooms alone, there had
been just such a scarlet hand of poinsettia against the cold marble
above her head.
'You have been seeing my husband,' she began quite unconsciously, and
he broke in on the remark with a curious little laugh.
'I have, Lady Arbuthnot; and I fear I have wasted my time; and his. The
former is of little consequence, but the latter I regret.'
As she so often did, out of a blessed unconsciousness that her mental
position towards him was quite untenable, she appealed at once to that
past confidence.
'Don't be angry, please! I was afraid there might be--difficulties.
Sir George,' she smiled frankly, 'was in a very bad temper. I had
just'--she broke off, realising that absolute confidence was
impossible, then went on--'but you must not let that interfere
with--with what you think advisable. And you do think with me, don't
you? that it would be advisable to inquire whether--whether that
unfortunate letter of mine----'
Jack Raymond, who had remained standing in impatient hesitation between
his politeness and his desire to escape as soon as possible, stared at
her.
'What letter?' he asked.
She rose too in sudden surprise, and they stood facing each other
against that background of white marble and scarlet outspread
poinsettia. 'Then it was something else,' she said; 'I thought it must
be _this_.'
He took the letter she held out, and read it.
'It says nothing definitely,' she went on, 'but--but I think it must be
that; don't you? If so, what ought we to do?'
The 'we' struck him sharply, and he asked, 'Have you told Sir George?'
'Told him?' she echoed, flushing a little. 'No! I wish, now, I had, at
first; he--he would have faced the possible danger by this time. But
now? now it is impossible, Mr. Raymond! I have thought it out
thoroughly. It would be better to take the risk, if that is necessary.
But it need not be, if you will help me.'
He shook his head.
'Why should you not?' Her head was up, her beautiful face full of a
faint scorn, her clear eyes were on his unflinchingly.
He met her look, as he always met a challenge, with almost brutal
sincerity.
'Because I do not choose to--to stultify the last ten years; because
I gave up all that sort of thing when--when I said good-bye to
you--here.'
'And you would let that stand between you and--no! not between you--but
between death and life perhaps for others; between order and disorder,
anyhow. You think it important, I know----'
'Sir George does not,' he interrupted.
'What does that matter? You are as capable of judging as he; perhaps
more so! Why should you be a coward? Why should you, who possibly--no!
probably--know far more of the ins and outs of the city than the
regular officials?--Oh, don't deny it! Have I not heard them say, "Ask
Raymond" this or that, and "Raymond will know," and have I not been
glad--so glad that everything has not been spoilt! Why should you, I
say, give up your own opinion? For it comes to that. What you came here
to tell Sir George to-day, for instance; you must have thought it
important, or you would not have come.'
'I came because I thought it my duty to acquaint the authorities with
certain facts that had been brought to my notice. I have done so, and
that ends it----'
'It does not end it! You and Sir George disagreed, you know you did, as
to its importance. You still think you are right, and yet you yield to
him--why?'
There was a moment's pause, and then Jack Raymond gave a hard laugh.
'Why? I will tell you the truth, Lady Arbuthnot, though you may not
like it--though I acknowledge it is humiliating--for all of us! Because
I have had to yield to him before. Because he hasn't forgotten, and I
haven't forgotten, and you haven't forgotten--not quite, have you? It
is nothing to be ashamed of; it is only natural--one of the limitations
of life--but there it is, isn't it?'
He took a step nearer in the silence.
'Isn't it?' he repeated. 'Tell the truth, Grace, and shame--don't let
us say the devil--but fate. There, put your hand in mine, and face our
own--forgetfulness!'
She faced it boldly, even though he felt her hand tremble in his--'Did
I ever deny it?' she said softly, with tears in her voice; 'I do not, I
_cannot_ forget quite. It is pitiful, of course; but why----?'
'Don't!' he interrupted quickly. 'Don't, my dear lady! You will only
make me remember more; that is the truth. As you say, it is pitiful;
but there it is.'
She stood looking at him with a world of regret, some anger, and a
little, a very little scorn.
'And you will let this interfere with--with everything.'
'Not with everything, but with this, certainly,' he pointed to the
letter which he had laid on the console below the poinsettias. 'And
that is all the easier to do, because I don't believe in it--quite. But
if I were you, I should tell Sir George the truth and let him decide.
As for the other matter about which I came to speak, he may be right,
and I wrong. Time will show.'
'It may, disastrously, to many--to India--even to Empire!'--the scorn
came uppermost now.
'Surely,' he replied, reverting to his usual manner, 'the Empire can
take care of itself. If not, Lady Arbuthnot, I am afraid it must do
without my help--in Nushapore. Good-bye.'
The qualification held all his previous arguments in it, and re-aroused
his own bitterness at his own memories, so that as he walked on down
the long vista of rooms, he felt each well-remembered bit of it to be a
fresh injury; and his impatience, his obstinacy grew at each step. Why
had not Grace the sense to believe, once for all, as he had told her at
the very first, that hers was not the hand to wile his back to the
plough?
Her hand! Ye Gods! And he could feel its touch now on his. That woman's
touch so full of possibilities, so full of power.
'Mr. Waymond! Oh, Mr. Waymond! Do please don't go away!' came Jerry's
voice from a side-room used as a schoolroom which opened out from the
hall. 'Oh, please do come and help me wif this. I'm 'fwaid I don't know
somefing I ought to know.'
It never needed much of Jerry's voice to cajole any one; so the next
moment, temper or no temper, Jack Raymond was bending over the little
figure which, perched on a high chair at the table, was busy over a map
of India.
'Hullo, young man!' he said. 'Lessons?'
Jerry looked at him in shocked surprise. 'Why, it's Sunday! And I've
learned my hymn--'bout babes an' sucklings an' such is the kingdom of
heaven, don't you know. An' I'm not 'llowed to go to church 'cos mum
says I'm not normal yet; don't you fink, Mr. Waymond, it's just orful
dull of people always twying to be just the same? I like it when mum
says I'm feverish. I dweam dweams. Las' night I dweamt there was a weal
wow, an' dad made me his galloper, an' I had secwet dispatches. Oh! it
was just wippin', I tell you. I think secwet dispatches is--is the
loveliest game! 'Cos it's--it's all your own, you know, and nobody,
nobody else mustn't have them, or know, not even mum. And you keep 'em
quite, quite secwet, an' you don't even know what's inside, yourself;
do you? Not if you play it ever, ever so long as I do. And I _did_ it
once too, you know, weally; at least I fink I did, though they say I
didn't.'
The child's eyes were still over bright, his cheeks flushed with the
last touches of the sun fever which comes and goes so easily with
English children in India; and Jack Raymond smiled softly at the little
lad who reminded him so much of his own boyhood, even though the
remembrance, at that particular moment, brought a fresh bitterness
towards the woman he had just left--the woman who would have liked, as
it were, to eat her cake and have it.
'And what are you up to now?' he asked, seating himself on the table
and looking down at what lay on it--the outspread map, a paint-box, and
a crimson-stained tumbler of water--'spoiling the map of India; eh?'
'I ain't _spoiling_ it,' retorted Jerry indignantly, 'I'm only paintin'
it wedder. Mum said I might.'
'I'll tell you what, though, young man! You'll spoil yourself if you
suck your paint-brush.'
It came out of Jerry's mouth with the usual crimson flag of contrition
all over his cheeks. 'It's orful hard to wemember when one is
finking-finking of nothin' but the wed, and yet twyin' to play fair.'
'Play fair?' echoed Jack Raymond. 'What game are you playing now,
Jerry?'
'Oh! it isn't a game; it's weal. Only, I mean the tiddly little
bits'--Jerry, his tongue in his cheek, was laboriously at work again on
Rajputana with a brush so surcharged with carmine that it left perfect
bloodstains on the general tint of pale yellow--'I don't want, in
course, to take more 'n belongs to the Queen, but they mustn't have the
teeniest bit of what belongs to us, must they, Mr. Waymond?'
'I see,' replied the man slowly. 'You are painting the town red for Her
Majesty--I mean the map.--Isn't it red enough as it is, Jerry?'
The child--in his excitement put down his paint-brush in the middle of
Bengal as a safe spot. 'Not half wed enough! An' besides! there's
mistakes an' mistakes, an' the yellow an' gween run over the line. I
don't mind the yellow so much, 'cos we only allow them to be that
colour; but it's dweadful with gween! An' then there's some orful
fings. You see that spot'--he pointed triumphantly to an almost
invisible speck of red like a midge bite--'I made that! It wasn't
there. Mum said the map people fought it was too small to put in, but
it's got to be, you see; so when I give the map to Budlu--Budlu's got a
little grandson older nor me at school who learns maps, and mum said I
might give him this one--I'll tell him it isn't _quite_ the wight size.
But it may be, some time, you know. Perhaps when I gwow up it will be.'
The clear bright eyes grew dreamy, as Jerry, with conscientious care,
skirted around the possessions of an extremely minor chieftain.
'Perhaps!' echoed the man still more slowly. 'And I expect you'd like
to make it bigger, wouldn't you?'
'Wather! I should think I just would! Like as mum says her
gweat-gweat-gwandfather-people--an' yours too, she said, Mr.
Waymond--did. Just like Clive, you know, an' all the people that people
wemember.'
The man's face was very close to the child's now, as resting his elbows
on the table, he watched the crimson brush.
'What a Jingo you are, Jerry! And if any one were to try--to try and
make a really red bit yellow, for instance--or even pale pink--what
would you do?'
Jerry went on with his task laboriously. 'I wouldn't let 'em, in
course. I'd take away their tumblers, an' their paint-brushes, an'
everything, till they hadn't no excuse; an' then, if they was bad
still, I d whack 'em!'
Jack Raymond rose to go. 'A very sound theory of Government, young
man,' he said, and his voice had an odd ring in it, 'especially the
whacking. It's a pity you're not grown-up now, Jerry--why aren't you?'
Jerry looked up with the child's sudden consciousness of a joke, and
smiled at his friend roguishly.
'Why? 'Cos _you_ are, in course! When you're dead, I'll do it. It's
your turn now! Oh don't go, please! you haven't told me yet----'
'What?' asked Jack Raymond, pausing with a still odder look on his
face.
Jerry's finger travelled carefully down to Pondicherry. 'That!' he
said. 'They say it is Fwench, an' it's beastly; but when I looked in
the atlas for Fwance colour, it was all sorts--gweens, and blues, and
yellows, and weds, all mixed up. So, please! wouldn't it be fair to
make it wed too? I couldn't help what it _looks like_, could I, if I
didn't mean cheating?'
'My dear little chap!' replied Jack Raymond, 'if I were you, I'd paint
every blessed bit of it bright scarlet!' And then suddenly, much to
Jerry's surprise, he stooped and kissed the child's puzzled yet open
forehead.
'Oh! fank you,' said Jerry politely. 'Mum kisses me like that
sometimes, and dad too. I--I like it.'