We gave him a cup for forgiveness’ sake, and Colonel Blow too, and afterwards the rest of them came up in parties and we ministered to them, washing the cups after each lot in a pail of water. When all the white men had finished, we served the black constables and convicts a beakerful apiece, Colonel Blow having sent to their quarters for their own beakers. The convicts, melancholy-looking fellows, surveyed me with a shy curiosity, I suppose because I was a newcomer. But Colonel Blow for some reason seemed to resent their looking at me, for as soon as he noticed it he gave a rough order in the native tongue that made them all look hurriedly in another direction.
I told the postmaster that we had invaded his sanctum, but he was quite charming about it, and at once bestowed upon us the freedom of the post-office. He said we could even use the postage stamps if they were of any use to us.
Later Mrs Marriott and I returned to our lettery retreat. When we were at last tucked in under our rugs with the candle out I asked her to give me her advice about what I should do next day.
“But I don’t understand, quite,” she said. “Aren’t you staying with the Salisbury ladies?”
“I was,” said I. “Mrs Valetta is supposed to be chaperoning me in the absence of my sister-in-law, but she has thrown up the position.”
“But—what have—what could you have done to offend her?”
“She has offended me.”
“But—can’t it be patched up? Can’t you overlook her offences? I don’t see how a young girl like you can live alone here.”
“I’m quite willing to patch up,” said I. “She and Mrs Skeffington-Smythe and Miss Cleeve were all very rude to me, but—because of certain circumstances I can almost forgive them. However, I’m afraid they mean to declare war.”
“Well, but—forgive me for asking—what could you have done?”