“Yes, but no one so good-looking,” said Bettington, wrinkling his rocky nose and gazing at them with bland eyes. “Besides the only empty tent is the one on the waggon where my kit is.”
The other two studied his red complexion discontentedly.
“Well, you ought to be very nice to that lady,” quoth Hallam at last.
“I’ll try to be,” promised Bettington earnestly. The American may or may not have been reassured, but Randal stirred uneasily.
“She drew a blank in the marriage lottery, all right,” continued Hallam. “But she has a nice little kid, and a sister that could take any man in this country in tow if she cared to, but she don’t.”
“Wise sister!” thought Bettington, “but I’m glad it’s not she who’s going to Beira.” What he said was:
“I should regard Stannard as more in the nature of a surprise packet with a live bomb inside it than a blank. I used to know him years ago, before drink and gambling debts drove him out of the army. How came a pretty woman like that to tie up with him?”
“You can search me. I guess she hadn’t seen many other fellows.”
“That was just it,” proffered Randal. “They belong to an old Huguenot family, and these girls were brought up as innocent as lambs on a farm near Worcester, and I suppose thought everything that had worn a British uniform was an angel, and every man that came from England a gentleman.”
“Well, they know better now, no doubt,” remarked Bettington pleasantly, and looked at his watch. “I think I’ll go round to the Bank and see if I can decoy Johnson out to Penhalonga to-night. Sure you won’t come, Hallam?”