The barmaid tossed her head contemptuously, served the drinks, and was about to turn away, when her eyes caught those of Huey.
“An old acquaintance! How are you? Come to stop in Sydney?”
And Bertha, for it was Bertha, glorified by the latest fashion in dress and coiffure—Bertha, morocco-bound and gilt-edged—smiled at him, bending her head on one side and looking slantwise with her eyes.
Huey drank in her smile like dew from Heaven; drank it in with a species of intoxication. He answered in words he was ashamed of, so halting and stumbling. Then the three sat down.
“Isn’t she a clinker?” said Sam.
“My word!” added Alec.
Huey said nothing.
“I’ll go and have a word with her,” said Alec, and, rising, he went to the bar, and started a conversation with Bertha.
Huey watched them, expecting with certainty that Bertha would receive the clumsy compliments and remarks of Alec with indifference, if not disgust. What was his surprise to see her answer graciously, and, could he believe his eyes, smile on Alec, with that same soul-devouring smile that she had bestowed on himself. He felt in a moment a great hatred for Alec, and he felt as though this old chum of his had basely robbed him of some dear treasure, and had any one noted Huey’s eyes at that moment, they would have seen a flash of hell-fire from them.
The moment passed,—it was all in a moment, but a bitterness remained, even though as Huey sat there he saw this smile bestowed not on one only, but half-a-dozen other favoured customers.