“Well, those who come here really do say ‘serpents’ and ’crocodiles.’”
“Do you mean as an oath?” said Eve, thinking vaguely of “Donner und blitzen.”
“As an oath? I have never heard it used in that way,” answered Miss Sabrina, astonished. “I mean that they call the snakes serpents, and the alligators crocodiles; my father thinks that so very affected.”
Thus the wan-cheeked mistress of Romney endeavored to entertain their guest.
That night Eve was sitting by her fire. The mattress of Meadows was no longer on the floor; the English girl had started on her return journey the day before, escorted to the pier by all the blacks of the island, respectful and wondering. The presence of little Jack asleep in his crib behind a screen, with Dilsey on her pallet beside him, made the large wind-swept chamber less lonely; still its occupant felt overwhelmed with gloom. There was a light tap at the door, and Cicely entered; she had taken off her gay blue frock, and wore a white dressing-gown. “I thought I’d see if you were up.” She went across and looked at Jack for a moment; then she came back to the fire. “You haven’t touched your hair, nor unbuttoned a button; are you always like that?”
“Like what?”
“Trim and taut, like a person going out on horse-back. I should love to see you with your hair down; I should love to see you run and shriek!”
“I fear you are not likely to see either.”
Cicely brought her little teeth together with a click. “I’ve got to get something over in the north wing; will you come? The wind blows so, it’s splendid!”
“I will go if you wish,” said Eve.