"—I've given the cats all the milk!"
"No matter," said Charles magnanimously. "The poor beggars wanted it more than I. I never drink more than one cup of tea; it makes me nervous."
"How good you are!" she murmured. "You remind me of father."
Charles moved uneasily in his chair.
From somewhere in the distance came the sound of Susannah singing and cleaning a window, a song like a fetish song interrupted by the sound of the window being closed to see if it was clean enough, and flung up again with a jerk, that spoke of dissatisfaction. These sounds of a sudden ceased.
They were succeeded by the murmur of voices, a footstep, then a tap at the door, followed by the voice of Susannah requesting her mistress to step outside for a moment.
"I know what that always means," murmured the girl in a resigned voice, as she rose from the table and left the room.
Charles Bevan rose from his chair and went to the window.
"These people want protecting," he said to himself frowning at the asparagus bed. "Irresponsibility when it passes a certain point becomes absolute lunacy. Fanny and her father ought to be in a lunatic asylum with their ghosts, and cats, and rubbish, only I don't believe any lunatic asylum would take them in; they would infect the other patients and make them worse. Good Heavens! it makes me shudder. They must be on the verge of the workhouse, making asparagus beds, and drinking champagne, and flying off to Paris, and feeding every filthy stray cat with food they must want for themselves. Poor devils—I mean damned fools. Anyhow, I must be going." The recollection of a certain lady named Pamela Pursehouse arose coldly in his mind now that Miss Lambert was absent from the room, and the little "still voice," whatever a still voice may be, said something about duty.
He determined to flee from temptation directly his hostess returned, but he reckoned without Fate.