I put my arm round the slim trim khaki waist, and half led, half dragged her to the den behind the post-office counter. Mrs Marriott was there already reading a book by candle-light, and she looked absolutely aghast at seeing me with my arm round a man’s waist, for with her usual knack of missing any excitement that was going on she knew nothing of the event that had just taken place. From her nervous, horrified expression she evidently concluded that this was a fresh escapade on my part and that I was hopelessly incorrigible. When I explained the situation she was so much relieved that she did not show as I feared any coolness to the luckless Mrs Rookwood; but instead began in her absent-minded fashion to move her things so that there would be more room for the latter who was forlornly drying her tears.
“We’ve only one small mattress and that is stuffed with nails,” I said apologetically.
“I’ve slept on the ground ever since I left here, you know—and been fearfully cold at night, too. I don’t mind anything now. It is awfully good of you to bother with me at all.”
She looked as if she was going to howl again.
“Nonsense!” I said briskly. “Do you like coffee à la turc?—because I’m just going to make some. It picks you up like a balloon. You’ll feel like a roaring lion afterwards.” She began to smile. “And a Welsh rarebit,” I beguiled her. “Oh, don’t say you are one of those cowards who daren’t eat Welsh rarebits for fear of what dreams may come.”
“No; I love them.” I had her laughing at last. “And I’m so hungry, Miss Saurin.”
“Well! there will be Welsh rarebit and some cold Mashona hen I stole from the hotel—and let me see. Where is the box of sharks you had, Mrs Marriott?”
She produced the sardines, also two boiled eggs and a lettuce. It had become our pleasant custom to ask either Colonel Blow or Mr Stair or Mr Bleksley to come in to supper before the night watches began. Hence these luxurious stores.
“Good,” I said. “That will provide for three courses; chicken mayonnaise, Welsh rarebit, and a sardine savoury. Lie down and rest, Mrs Rookwood, while we prepare supper.”
She did as I told her without a word, and Mrs Marriott and I busied ourselves with the postmaster’s oil-stove and a pan and pot I had secured from Hunloke and Dennison’s. Mrs Marriott actually rose to the point of going out to the yard-fire by herself to make three slices of toast for the savoury.