“There you are,” Little Ernie said. “The bathroom’s just through there. Make yourself at ’ome. Sorry I can’t give you a suit, but you and me ain’t quite in the same class, are we? Feather weight and ’eavy weight, eh?” He smirked. “You lave a clean up, and I’ll get a drink for you. Could you do with a bite to eat?”
George suddenly realized that he was famished. “It’s good of you,” he muttered, embarrassed, worried. “If it’s not putting you out…”
Little Ernie winked. “Leave it to me,” he said, and moved to the door. He could not resist saying, “Posh place, ain’t it? D’yer like it?”
George nodded. “I’ve never seen anything to touch it,” he said frankly envious.
Little Ernie jerked his thumb to the door. “She works like a nigger,” he said, lowering his voice. “Never no trouble. Takes a pride in the place. A gold mine,” and, nodding, he left the room.
Twenty minutes later George returned to the big sitting- room. He had made himself as tidy as he could and brushed his suit. He had had a bath, and his big face was shiny and red from the hot water and soap.
He found Little Ernie busying himself before the cocktail cabinet. A small table was laid with a snowy white cloth and glistening silver. Eva was perched on the arm of a chair, a cigarette in her full red lips, her eyes expectant and curious.
“What’ll you have?” she asked George as he came into the room. “A dry martini?”
“’Ave a whisky, chum,” Little Ernie said. “You don’t want cissy drinks like them French cocktails.” He came across the room with a tumbler a third full of whisky and clinking ice. “Ain’t Cora ready yet? You women… you’ll be the death of me.”
While he was talking, George noticed that Eva did not once take her eyes off his face. She looked at him with open admiration and expectancy. He suddenly realized that Little Ernie had probably told her he was a killer. It gave him an exciting feeling of power.