CHAPTER XXII
The atmosphere of a kitchen, however clean and well-ordered it may be, is calculated to pall on any man of intellect and genius. It needs the gross mind of a materialist, a man like the husband of Heloise (Gordon’s expression was one of distaste as he thought of that man) to appreciate the lingering fragrance of long-baked and long-consumed pies, the everlasting aroma which the spluttering hot oven has sent forth from time to time through the years, to permeate the homely furniture, and through that medium to retain its delicate nidus for the joy of those lovers of good food to whom such smells were appetising.
Gordon had read everything that was readable. He had skipped through two cookery books, and had read the old newspapers in the wood cupboard. The almanac above the kitchen range he knew by heart, so that he could have told you the exact date when everybody of importance was born, married or assassinated.
Happily, he had seen little of Heloise and less of Diana. At the thought of Diana his expression changed from one of great sadness to one of intense malignity. And then he would laugh softly, for, despite all that had been said (and that in his hearing) he possessed a sense of humour. How remarkably capable she was! In his bitterest moments this fact worked out from the confusion of his resentment. And how lovely! Once he had tried to patronise her ... he blushed at the memory. Suppose he hadn’t gone away on this mad adventure, would he have recognised all her excellent qualities as he saw them now? It was doubtful. He was so keyed up, his nerves were stretched at such tension, that every note of her was detected and valued. And of course she was behaving in this outrageous way in his interest. He warmed at this thought. But Dempsi ... his heart went back into the refrigerator.
The door opened slowly and he looked up, hoping to see the subject of his thoughts. But he was to be disappointed. It was Heloise. She threw down the book she was carrying, tore off the selvedge of an old newspaper that lay on the table, and, by its aid and the kitchen fire, lit a cigarette.
He got up from the Windsor chair before the fire, and, without a word of thanks, she dropped into his place. She smoked, watching the fire. She was pretty too, but in a harder way. He felt just a little sorry for her....
Presently Gordon broke into her thoughts.
“You’ve landed me in a pretty fine mess,” he said without heat.
She looked up at him sideways, flicking the ash from her cigarette with a cute little snap of her forefinger.
“I’ve landed you!” she said ironically. “I like that—anyway, there’s no call to get mad, Man.”