Despair Calls.
“It is not the perfect but the imperfect that have need of love.”
As I followed the little pathway which led from the house to the post-office buildings, where we were all to be shut in for the night, some one came running towards me and I presently recognised Mr Maurice Stair.
“Where are the other ladies?” he cried. “Is that you, Miss Saurin? Colonel Blow is fearfully annoyed that you aren’t all in long ago. There has been a warning sent in from the patrol and it’s quite on the cards that we may be attacked to-night.”
As he reached me I saw that there was another man behind him. The light was not good but I was able to distinguish a short, thick figure, and a puffy, fiery face. Upon the evening air I also recognised that faint sickening aroma of spirits I had already learned to associate with complexions of such radiant hue.
“This is Mr Skeffington-Smythe. He was so anxious about his wife that he left the column at Charter and has come down here to stay in laager and look after her.” Mr Stair was at no pains to conceal the note of irony in his voice, but it appeared to be quite lost upon his companion.
So this was the gallant dare-devil Monty!
“Where is the poor little woman?” he confidentially enquired, lurching towards me. But I withdrew hastily beyond his radius, and moved on, waving my hand towards the house I had just left.
“You’ll find them all there—and Mr Stair, bring my dressing-case will you? I’ve come without it.”
I had indeed come without anything, and without an idea of where I was to sleep or spend the night. It is true that I had seen Adriana piling up rugs and mattresses, mine amongst them, and carrying them out, but I could not suppose that Mrs Valetta had given any special directions for my comfort.