“I ain’t nobody’s darlin’, I’m blue as can be,” feelingly rendered by an indifferent baritone, floated into the room.
“That’s ’im,” shouted Uncle Tom gleefully. “Come in, yer bounder. There ain’t no room, but we can’t keep you out.”
Mr. Alcock and Mr. Barnham laughed half-heartedly.
Mr. Mason entered, tripped, recovered himself, gave the threshold an awful look, placed his hat upon the hand which Mr. Barnham was extending, side-stepped to the fireplace, pressed an imaginary bell and said, “Waiter bring a non-skid ’ammock and a moonlit night: I’ve just been married.”
Even Aunt Harriet laughed—rather reluctantly. In fact, good humour was bundled into the room, neck and crop.
Mr. Mason was tubby and of a cheerful countenance. He was neatly dressed in a sponge-bag suit which was too tight for him, a low double collar, a spotted bow tie and sand-shoes. A cane dangled from his pocket and a faded carnation drooped from his buttonhole.
Miss Gedge was stout, frankly vulgar and, but for a cast in her eye, would have been a good-looking girl. She was the personification of contentment and goodwill. A droll pertness of manner enhanced her charm. She had, moreover, a most infectious laugh. This her squire exploited vigorously. The two carried all before them.
There were but eight chairs, but the shortage, so far from presenting difficulty, smoothed an irregularity away. Lady Ann took her proper place, namely, her husband’s lap, while Ada, with many giggles, subsided into that of Mr. Alcock.
The tambourine was rolling. . . .
The flow of hatred had been arrested: soon the leak was being plugged—with the very underlinen of Sensitiveness, delicate, rosy mysteries, ripped from a girl’s back.