"Any language that will help me beat Weedie at his game, or give me a look at the cards old Madame Beattie holds. I feel a fool. Why can't I know what they're talking about when they can kick up row enough under my very nose to make you come and rag me like this?"
"Jeff," said Miss Amabel, "unless you are prepared to go into social work seriously and see things as Mr. Moore sees them—"
Jeff gave a little crow of derision and she coloured. "It wouldn't hurt you, Jeff, to see some things as he does. The necessity of getting into touch with our foreign population—"
"I'll do that all right," said Jeffrey. "That's precisely what I mean. I'm going to learn foreign tongues and talk to 'em."
"They say Madame Beattie speaks a dozen or so and I don't know how many dialects."
"Oh, I can't compete with Madame Beattie. She's got the devil on her side."
Miss Amabel rose to her feet and stood regarding him sorrowfully. He looked up at her with a glance full of affection, yet too merry for her heavy mood. Then he got on his feet and took her parasol.
"You haven't noticed the corn," said he. "Don't you know you must praise the work of a man's hands?"
"I don't know whether it's a good thing for you or not," said she. "Yes, it must have been, so far. You're tanned."
"I feel fit enough."