She stepped out into the road, motioning Rampole to follow. The murmur of voices had frozen. Standing in the middle of the road, still with his hand half lifted, a slightly built young man had twisted round to face her. He had the spoiled, self-conscious face of one who generally gets his way with women, with dark hair and a contemptuous mouth; and he was a little drunk. He swayed a little now. Behind him Rampole could see a crooked track in the white dust to show his progress.
"Hello, Dot!" he said, abruptly. "You can certainly sneak up on a fellow. What's the idea?"
He spoke with a strong attempt at an American accent. Laying a hand on the arm of the person with him, he assumed dignity. This latter was obviously a relation; his features were blunt where the other's were delicate, his clothes rode high on him, and his hat did not have the same careless curve as Martin Starberth's, but there was an undeniable resemblance. He looked embarrassed, and his hands seemed too big.
"Been — been in to tea, Dorothy?" he asked, fumbling. "Sorry we're late. We — we were detained."
"Of course," the girl said, impassively. "May I present: Mr. Rampole, Mr. Martin Starberth, Mr. Herbert Starberth. Mr. Rampole's a countryman of yours, Martin."
"You an American?" demanded Martin, in a brisk manner. "That's good. Whereya from? New York? That's good. I just left there. I'm in the publishing business. Whereya staying? — Fell's? That old codger. Look here, come on up to the house and I'll give you a little drink."
"We're going to tea, Martin," Herbert said, with a sort of stolid patience.
"Ah, yell with that tea stuff. Listen, you come up to the house―"
"You'd best not go to tea, Martin," said his sister; "and, please, no more to drink. I wouldn't care, but you know why."
Martin looked at her. "I'm going to tea," he said, sticking out his neck, "and, what's more, I'm going_ to have another little drink. Come on, Bert."