“Here I am, Edith,” said Mr. Quest quietly, as he stepped from the balcony into the room.
“Oh, there you are, are you?” she said, “hiding away in the dark—just like your nasty mean ways. Well, my long-lost one, so you have come home at last, and brought the tin with you. Well, give us a kiss,” and she advanced on him with her long arms outspread.
Mr. Quest shivered visibly, and stretching out his hand, stopped her from coming near him.
“No, thank you,” he said; “I don’t like paint.”
The taunt stopped her, and for a moment an evil light shone in her cold eyes.
“No wonder I have to paint,” she said, “when I am so worn out with poverty and hard work—not like the lovely Mrs. Q., who has nothing to do all day except spend the money that I ought to have. I’ll tell you what it is, my fine fellow: you had better be careful, or I’ll have that pretty cuckoo out of her soft nest, and pluck her borrowed feathers off her, like the monkey did to the parrot.”
“Perhaps you had better stop that talk, and come to business. I am in no mood for this sort of thing, Edith,” and he turned round, shut the window, and drew the blind.
“Oh, all right; I’m agreeable, I’m sure. Stop a bit, though—I must have a brandy-and-soda first. I am as dry as a lime-kiln, and so would you be if you had to sing comic songs at a music hall for a living. There, that’s better,” and she put down the empty glass and threw herself on to the sofa. “Now then, tune up as much as you like. How much tin have you brought?”
Mr. Quest sat down by the table, and then, as though suddenly struck by a thought, rose again, and going to the door, opened it and looked out into the passage. There was nobody there, so he shut the door again, locked it, and then under cover of drawing the curtain which hung over it, slipped the key into his pocket.
“What are you at there?” said the woman suspiciously.