“Have you seen Verity lately?” he added, stepping back. “She’s been weighing on my mind, too—she looks so depressed and—to tell the truth—cross. I offered to send her a song, the other day, and she actually said she hated music, and never wanted to sing a note again. So tiresome when quite nice young people grow up ill-tempered and rude!”
“Perhaps she wasn’t feelin’ well,” Larrupper replied, his old loyalty driving him to her defence. “I’m goin’ over to see her, now. No message, I suppose?”
“Oh, my love, of course. My love!” Savaury responded loftily. “At least she’s never refused that, yet, though there’s no knowing what she’ll come to. And you can bring hers back—if you’ve any to spare!”
He smiled joyfully as Larry coloured to the eyes, convinced that with him lay the clue to Verity’s “tiresome” behaviour, and sprinkled a shower of blessing as the car moved forward. Then he went in to tell Petronilla about Christian.
Augustus had sat still as the Sphinx through this interview, and indeed Larry had forgotten him completely, until a finely-modelled little hand crept presently into his line of vision, and planted firm little fingers on the steering-wheel. He found himself staring at it as if fascinated—it was so soft and round, so dimpled, and so—small. The arm peeping from the muffler was soft and round too; it seemed ridiculous that it should ever grow an iron bunch of muscle like his own, handle a heavy car, or send a man to destruction by a wrestler’s chip. Yet Laker had been such another as this mite—Savaury remembered him, and had cherished an old pot for his sake; even he himself, even he had been a lovable little child once. It was queer how the little beggars got round you, how out of proportion they made other things appear, the little petty things which seemed so huge when you brooded about them in your silly head. It was good for a man to have to look after one of them—stopped him worrying about his own idiotic troubles. It would be jolly to have one always at hand, he thought. They were so attractive, too. That absurd arm—he was ashamed to find himself wanting to stoop his head and put his lips to it. The fierce ache in his heart lessened. Something tolerant and tender stirred in his breast. Perhaps he had been hard on Verity, after all. Savaury had said she was cross, and that was a sure sign she was unhappy. It was no use telling himself that she deserved to be—the fact that she was miserable hurt him none the less. What had the frantic tragedy been about, after all? Old Grant? Well, why in Hades shouldn’t old Grant dree his weird like every other earth-bound brute? It was cruel to think that Verity might be acutely unhappy. Why, she might even be crying! His foot went to the accelerator. He had never seen her cry for herself. It didn’t bear thinking of. Oh, why hadn’t he spoken to her more gently! She was only a little thing, and so dear. There was nobody like her in the whole world.
Rattling up to Heron door, he saw Verity on the lawn, and checked by the big beech. When she recognised him she turned and walked quickly away; and then just as quickly turned and walked back again. Augustus’ expression changed definitely; this time in the direction of annoyance.
“Mother is downstairs, if you would like to see her,” she said politely. “Is that your latest thing in mascots? I hope the Cruelty man isn’t on your track?”
“You’re a bit insultin’,” Larry observed distantly. “This trustin’ gentleman commandeered the car in Crump. He’s not takin’ any harm at present, though I dare say he’d like a piece of cake or somethin’, wouldn’t you, old man? I’ve brought you a note from Debbie an’ a rather squabby thing in parcels.”
“Oh, the handkerchiefs, I suppose? All right. I’ll fetch the kiddie some cake. Don’t trouble to get out unless you’re going in. Just throw them over.”
“I’m not in the habit of throwin’ things either to or at ladies,” Larry replied rather stiffly, climbing out. “An’ now I come to think of it, you haven’t asked any charmin’ questions about Christian.”