“Is anything wrong with my father?” she asked. “I don’t see him.”
“If you mean Mr. Marnham,” I replied, lifting my hat, “I believe that Dr. Rodd and he—”
“Never mind about Dr. Rodd,” she broke in with a contemptuous little jerk of her chin, “how is my father?”
“I imagine much as usual. He and Dr. Rodd were here a little while ago, I suppose that they have gone out” (as a matter of fact they had, but in different directions).
“Then that’s all right,” she said with a sigh of relief. “You see, I heard that he was very ill, which is why I have come back.”
So, thought I to myself, she loves that old scamp and she—doesn’t love the doctor. There will be more trouble as sure as five and two are seven. All we wanted was a woman to make the pot boil over.
Then I opened the gate and took a travelling bag from her hand with my politest bow.
“My name is Quatermain and that of my friend Anscombe. We are staying here, you know,” I said rather awkwardly.
“Indeed,” she answered with a delightful smile, “what a very strange place to choose to stay in.”
“It is a beautiful house,” I remarked.