He closed the door violently, while Mrs. Manton merely put up her hand to tidy her hair, as if Jolvin’s commotion had disturbed its excellent coiffure. Then Stalton came softly in from a back hall-way.
“What’s the matter with Jolvin to-night?” he enquired casually.
“Just ranting on Bolshevism, as per usual,” replied Mrs. Manton, as she dealt out the cards.
“Don’t ever get him started on socialism,” Stalton advised. “He got me cornered one night and just about proved that it was sinful to own property at all. It gave me a Sunday-school feeling right down to my boots to think how righteous I was in at least that one respect.”
“That man does irritate, occasionally,” she admitted. “However, he’s not such a poor sort, at other times.”
“I wish I could play the guitar as well as he can, Gertrude,” put in Miss Sadie Grote, as she picked up her cards and examined them.
Stalton walked to a chair, which he pulled up near Mauney’s.
“That bird,” he said, indicating the door through which Jolvin had just gone, “is the only Englishman I ever met who hated England. He’s troubled with a bad form of ingrowing Anglophobia, and he does everything possible to Westernize himself. He even plays a Hawaiian guitar. Any time during the night we’re liable to hear it mewing like a cat up in his room. If he keeps on he’s certainly going to qualify for one of the leading parts in a murder scene.”
Mauney laughed.