“Nonsense,” said Peter, who had turned white, however. “She’s not that sort of girl.”
“Not that sort of girl!” Clodd had no patience with Peter Hope, and told him so. “Why are there never inkstains on her fingers now? There used to be. Why does she always keep a lemon in her drawer? When did she last have her hair cut? I’ll tell you if you care to know—the week before he came, five months ago. She used to have it cut once a fortnight: said it tickled her neck. Why does she jump on people when they call her Tommy and tell them that her name is Jane? It never used to be Jane. Maybe when you’re a bit older you’ll begin to notice things for yourself.”
Clodd jammed his hat on his head and flung himself down the stairs.
Peter, slipping out a minute later, bought himself an ounce of snuff.
“Fiddle-de-dee!” said Peter as he helped himself to his thirteenth pinch. “Don’t believe it. I’ll sound her. I shan’t say a word—I’ll just sound her.”
Peter stood with his back to the fire. Tommy sat at her desk, correcting proofs of a fanciful story: The Man Without a Past.
“I shall miss him,” said Peter; “I know I shall.”
“Miss whom?” demanded Tommy.
“Danvers,” sighed Peter. “It always happens so. You get friendly with a man; then he goes away—abroad, back to America, Lord knows where. You never see him again.”
Tommy looked up. There was trouble in her face.