Nor did she waste much thought upon the ringleader and companion in the affair. Who or what he was did not matter much—just then; it was what he did that counted. And Rosalind knew, if she had been alone, that she would have done precisely the same thing. She found it rather pleasant to have somebody else performing the drudgery. He came back with a loaf of bread, some butter, and a can of potted tongue.
"I'm making some tea," he said. "It'll be ready as soon as the water boils."
He carved a slice of bread, buttered it for her, and offered it. She accepted with a nod of thanks, and mentally noted the fact that he knew how to cut thin slices.
The food and wine warmed her; they even thawed her wonted austerity. When he had finished eating, the boatman rummaged some cigarettes. He offered her one; she declined, but with a smile. Had she been alone—well, she might.
Under past circumstances, such an assumption on his part would have roused her to rebuke. But she was in an oddly comfortable mood.
As he settled down in a chair and stretched his long legs toward the fire, she studied him furtively. Particularly she studied his head. So far as shape went, it seemed quite unlike any of the pictures that represented the heads of typical criminals. It was rather well constructed, along conventional and respectable lines.
The beard he wore baffled her somewhat in an attempt to read his face; but that also, she decided, represented a normal average. Rosalind was in no sense a criminologist; yet in outward aspects the boatman had a law-abiding appearance.
He even revealed some traits that she admired. He had courage, for one thing; and resource for another. He had strength, too, which counted for something. In certain things he was rather ingenious, if frankly unprincipled.
Strangely enough, the thing for which she would have marked him "Excellent," had she been making out his report-card, was the very one that had so frequently lashed her to anger—his absolute lack of servility.
From most persons, and always from her inferiors, servility was something that Rosalind expected—and detested. She took it as her due; yes, even demanded it. But she despised the thing itself.