‘Do you mind,’ requested Jocelyn with icy politeness, ‘making yourself clear?’
‘Now, Mr. Luke, don’t—please don’t talk that way, begged Sally. ‘I only want to tell you what Father did when they come on.’
‘When what comes on, and where?’
‘These ’ere dry ’eaves,’ said Sally. ‘You’d be better if you’d take what Father did. ’Ad them somethin’ awful, ’e did. And you’d be better——’
But her voice faded away. When Jocelyn looked at her like that and said not a word, her voice didn’t seem able to go on talking, however hard she tried to make it.
And Jocelyn’s thoughts grew if possible blacker. This was to be his life’s companion—his life’s, mind you, he said to himself. Alone and unaided, he was to live out the years with her. A child; and presently not a child. A beauty; and presently not a beauty. But always to the end, now that his mother had deserted him, unadulterated Pinner.
‘There’s an h in heaves,’ he said, glowering at her, his gloom really inspissate. ‘I don’t know what the beastly things are, but I’m sure they’ve got an h in them.’
‘Sorry,’ breathed Sally humbly, casting down her eyes before his look.
Then he became aware of the unusual flush on her face,—one side was quite scarlet.
‘Why are you so red?’ he asked suddenly.