He picked up a copy of the Field, and hurled it after her retreating form. It struck the closing door, and fell in a flutter of crumpled pages to the floor. He was rather pleased with himself for having still enough strength to throw an unhandy missile so far and so accurately; but the effort made him pant, and for some time he lay back against the welter of pillows and cushions, raging at his infirmity. When he had recovered his breath, and his heart had ceased to thud so sickeningly in his chest, he reached out a hand for the whisky decanter. He splashed a liberal amount into a club-tumbler, and drank it neat. He felt better after that, but bent on pursuing his inquiries into Bart’s activities. He was shrewd enough to guess that he would get little satisfaction out of his sons, and presently sent for Loveday herself.
He looked her over critically when she came into the room, appreciating her graceful carriage as much as the beauty of her face. She betrayed no alarm at having been summoned unexpectedly to his room. Her dark eyes met his with a look of submissive inquiry; she came to a halt beside his bed, and folded her hands over her apron. “Sir?”
His lips began to curl at the corners. He didn’t blame Bart for making a fool of himself over this girl: he would, in fact, have thought him a poor-spirited young man to have overlooked charms so obvious. He addressed her with a suddenness calculated to throw her off balance. “They tell me my son Bart’s been making love to you, Loveday, my girl.”
Her eyelids did not flicker; her deep bosom rose and fell easily to her calm breathing; she smiled slowly, and after meeting his gaze for a limpid moment, cast down her eyes, and murmured: “Young gentleman do be high-spirited, sir.”
He was very nearly satisfied with this answer. He let out one of his short cracks of laughter, and reached out a hand to grasp her arm above the elbow. “Damme, if I were only ten years younger— !” he said, drawing her closer. “You’re a cosy armful, Loveday, aren’t you? Eh?”
She cast him a sidelong glance, provocative and alluring. “There be them as has said so, sir. You’re very good.” Her smile broadened, and became a little saucy. “I try to give satisfaction, sir,” she said demurely.
He roared with laughter at this, slid his hand down her arm, and began to fondle one of her hands. “You little baggage!” he said. “I’ll swear you’re as sly as a sackful of monkeys! I’d do well to get rid of you.”
She raised her eyes. “Have I done wrong, sir?”
“That’s between you and Bart, my lass!” he retorted. “You should know better than I what’s between the pair of you. Well, you’re no innocent! I know your kind: you’re well able to take care of yourself. Have your fun: who am I to object? But don’t think to inveigle my boy into marrying you, Loveday Trewithian! Understand me?”
She achieved a look of wide-eyed innocence. “To marry me?” she repeated. “Why, who said such a thing? It’s nothing but a bit of a flirtation! I can look after myself.”