Beryl was still in the drawing-room and the tea table had not been
cleared when Ambrose Sault came for the doctor's bag. She heard the
sound of his voice in the hall and came to the head of the stairs.
"Is that you, Mr. Sault? Won't you come up for a moment?"
The doctor had telephoned to Moropulos, he explained, asking him to
take the grip to his club. She gathered that it was usual for
Ambrose to carry out these little commissions.
"How is Miss Colebrook?--has she forgiven me for acting the part of
district visitor? She is a nice girl and her hair is such a
wonderful color."
"The osteopath says she will get well," replied Ambrose simply, "and
when I went in to see her this morning she told me she really thought
that she felt better already. She has the heart of a lion, Miss
Merville."
"She is certainly brave." Beryl knew she was a brute because she
could not work up an enthusiastic interest in Christina Colebrook.
"It will be wonderful if she is cured." Sault's voice was hushed.
"I daren't let myself think about it--in fact, I shall be more
bitterly disappointed than she, if the treatment does not succeed."
"You are very fond of her?" She had been examining his face as he
spoke, wondering what there was in him that she had seen at their
first meeting which reminded her of Ronnie. There was not a vestige
of likeness between them. This man's face, for all its strength, was
coarse; the eyes were the only fine features it possessed. And the
skin--there was a yellow-brown tinge in it. She remembered her
father saying once that people who had negro blood in their veins
betrayed their origin even though they were quite white, by a dark
half-moon on their finger-nails. Whilst he was speaking, he moved
his hands so that his nails were discernible. They were ugly nails,
broad and ragged of edge--yes, there it was--a brown crescent showing
against the deep pink.
"Yes, I'm fond of her. She is lovable. I haven't met anybody like
Christina before."
Why was she annoyed? Perhaps "annoyed" hardly described her emotion.
She was disappointed in him. Her attitude toward Sault was
enigmatical--it was certainly capricious. She was a little nauseated
and was glad when he went.
Sault carried the suitcase to the club and left it with a porter. He
wished he had an excuse for calling every day at the house--the sight
of her exalted him, raised him instantly to a higher plane.
He saw Evie walking home in front of him; she saw him, stopped and
became interested in a shop window. She always avoided him in the
street and would not dream of walking with him. In the kitchen, to
which she followed him, she condescended to speak.
"You were looking very pleased with yourself when I saw you in High
Street, Mr. Sault," she said.
"Was I--yes, I was feeling good. You're home early tonight, Evie."
Mrs. Colebrook had a washing day and was at her labors in the
scullery, and Evie could flare up without reproof.
"I'm so glad you notice when I come in, and go out!" she said. "It
is nice to know that all your movements are watched. I suppose I
ought to ask your permission when I stay out late? We always like to
please the lodger!"
He looked down into the pretty flushed face and smiled gently. "I
believe you are trying to be cross with me, Evie," he said
good-naturedly, "and I don't feel like being cross with anybody. My
dear, it is no business of mine--"
"Don't call me 'my dear', if you please! You have a nerve to 'my
dear' me! A man like you!"
Sault's knuckle touched his chin awkwardly. "I didn't mean to be
offensive--"
"You _are_ offensive! You are the most beastly offensive person I
know! You go prying and spying into my business and telling lies
about gentlemen whose boots you're not fit to blacken."
"Hello, hello!" Mrs. Colebrook stood in the kitchen doorway, wiping
her soapy hands on her apron. "What's this, Evie? Telling lies
about you? Mr. Sault would not tell a lie to save his life. What
gentleman? He'd have to be a pretty good gentleman for Mr. Sault to
blacken his boots."
Evie wilted before her mother's fiery gaze and, turning, slammed from
the room.
"It is nothing, Mrs. Colebrook," smiled Ambrose. "I made her
angry--something I said. It was my fault entirely. Now what about
those blankets?"
"You're not going to wash any blankets," said Mrs. Colebrook, "and
Evie has got to say she is sorry."
"I washed blankets before you were born, Mrs. Colebrook, or soon
after, at any rate. I promised you I'd come home and help you."
He went with her to the little scullery with its copper and wash tub,
she protesting.
"I didn't think you meant it," she said, "and I can't let you do it.
You go into the kitchen and I'll make you a cup of tea."
"Blankets," said Ambrose, rolling up his sleeves.
Evie burst into her room, red with anger. She hated Sault more than
ever. She said so, flinging her hat wildly on the bed.
"Oh--was that you who was strafing?" asked Christina.
"I gave him a piece of my mind," said Evie with satisfaction.
"That was generous, considering the size of it." Christina bent
outward and laid down the paper and stylograph she had been using.
"I couldn't have done that a few days ago," she said, "and what has
poor Ambrose done?"
"He had the cheek to tell me I was home very early, as if he was the
lord of the house!"
"Aren't you home early?"
"It is no business of his, the interfering old devil!"
Christina eyed her critically. "You came home in a bad temper," she
said. "I suppose giving up Ronnie has got on your nerves."
"I haven't given him up!" Evie snapped, "only he's busy tonight."
Christina chewed a toffee ball reflectively. "That man is certainly
industrious," she said. "They will have to bring out new papers to
print all he writes. Does he find time to eat?"