"How's Eleanor?" he asked.
Rosamund thought of Eleanor in the quiet room in the brown house, while she was here, with the song of the goose-girl in her ears—and her heart warmed as our hearts are apt to warm toward those we have left behind.
"Eleanor is well, and lovelier than ever," she told him.
Pendleton screwed up his face. "You aren't the only one who thinks she is lovely, old lady! If you don't watch out she'll spike your guns with Benny! He followed her around like Mary's lamb when she was up before Christmas; and I've known too many men and women in my time, Rosy dear, to believe they found nothing better to do than to sing your praises!"
Rosamund looked at him, and smiled tantalizingly. "Oh, we all know how experienced you are, Marshall," she teased him.
"Why don't you ask after Flood?" he pursued, ignoring her taunt; she smiled, and meekly said, "Well, how is he?"
"Bloody-thirsty!" he said, in a sepulchral tone.
"What?" she laughed. "What on earth do you mean?"
"Fact. He's had a lust for killing, a sort of Berserker rage against everything and everyone, ever since we got back from your place, except while your Eleanor was here. Finally he got into a regular fury with me, said he'd do various things to me—sort of speech you'd expect from a navvy, you know. Queer how those fellows revert. I told him to go west and shoot wild beasts, and, d'you know, he took me at my word! Now what do you think of that?"
Rosamund was greatly amused. "I think everyone ought to take your word with a grain of salt," she said.