And Concha, who, for a few moments, had been completely natural, once more turned into an English actress in a drawing-room play.
“Um ... yes ...” said Arnold meditatively, sighing, and knocking out the ashes of his pipe.
“Hulloa!” she suddenly drawled, as a plump, grinning, round-faced, young man made his appearance on the loggia.
It was Eben Moore, son of the vicar and senior “snotty” on one of His Majesty’s ships.
As to his name—it was short for Ebenezer, which, as Mrs. Moore continually told one, “has always been a name in my husband’s family.... My husband, you know, is the youngest son of a youngest son,” she would add with a humorously wry smile, as if there was something at once glorious and regrettable in belonging to the Tribe of Benjamin.
His face perceptibly fell as he caught sight of the two personable men playing clock-golf on the lawn.
“Aow lor’! You didn’t tell me as what there was company,” he said, imitating the local accent.
“Good God!” muttered Arnold, who found Eben’s humour nauseating; and he slouched off to join Guy, who was writing letters in the billiard-room.
“Got it?” said Concha, stretching out her hand and looking at him through her eyelashes.
Eben giggled. “I say! It’s pretty hot stuff, you know.”