“Sit down, the lot of ye!” said the cook.
They did, and that unparalleled dinner began. It must be borne in mind that Ross was wholly unaccustomed to this sort of thing, to home cooking at its best, to the maternal kindness of women toward a hungry man. He liked it.
He was in no hurry to go back to the solitude of the garage, and his own thoughts. Being invited to smoke, he lit a cigarette and made himself very comfortable, while the cook washed the dishes, and Gracie and the laundress dried them. He was still taciturn, because he couldn’t be anything else; but he answered questions.
He admitted that he had traveled a bit, and when the laundress, who was disposed to be arch, asked to be told about them queer places, he gave a few facts about the exports and imports of Manila. Anyhow, they all listened to him, and said, “Didjer ever!” and it was altogether the pleasantest hour he had yet spent in his native land.
And then—the swing door banged open, and there stood Amy, with a fur coat over her shimmering dress, and an ominous look in her black eyes.
“Moss!” she said. “What are you doing here? Get up and come with me at once! I want to speak to you!”
Without a word, he arose and followed her into the passage.
“I told you I was coming to the garage!” she pointed out, in a low, furious voice. “Why didn’t you wait there?”
“Look here!” said Ross. “I don’t like this sort of thing.”
Before his tone her wrath vanished at once.