Gerty made wild signals for him to change his clothes. She waved a hand indicating Rickard; she pointed to Tom’s sack suit lying on the floor where he had walked out of it.
“What is it all about?”
“Ssh,” whispered his wife. Again the wild gestures.
“Well, aren’t you satisfied? Don’t I look like a guy?”
He could be heard distinctly in the next room. Gerty gave it up in despair. She dabbed some more powder on her nose, and went out looking like a martyr; a very pretty martyr!
Rickard praised the miracles of the tent. Gerty’s soft flush reminded Innes of their old relation. “Exit Innes,” she was thinking, when Tom, red and perspiring, brought another element of discomfort into the room.
Gerty ushered them immediately to the table. She covered the first minutes which might be awkward with her small chatter. Somewhere she had read that it was not well to make apologies for lack of maid or fare. Besides, Mr. Rickard remembered Lawrence! That dreadful dining-room, the ever-set table! How she had hated it, though she had not known how fearful it was until she had escaped.
“We are simple folk here, Mr. Rickard,” she announced, as they took their places around the pretty table. That was her only allusion to deficiencies, but it covered her noiseless movements around the board between courses, filled up the gaps when she made necessary dives into kitchen or primitive ice-chest, and set the key for the homeliness of the meal itself. The dinner was a triumph of apparent simplicity. Only Innes could guess the time consumed in the perfection of detail, details dear to the hostess’ heart. The almonds she had blanched, of course, herself; had dipped and salted them. The cheese-straws were her own. She did not make the mistake of stringing out endless courses. An improvised buffet near at hand made the serving a triumph.
Rickard praised each dish; openly he was admiring her achievement. Innes, remembering the story Gerty had told her in dots and dashes, the story of the old rivalry, glanced covertly at Tom sulking at the head of his own table.
“Poor sulky Achilles,” she thought. “Dear, honest old bear!”