He went heavily into his own room. Below him a little porch led out from the smoking-room, and as he sat lost in a miserable reverie, voices rose from it to his window.
“Nobody knows what she’s been to me. As much like a mother as I’d let her. I did everything but the cigarettes, and I meant to tell her I’d do that too, next month—that’s her birthday.”
Was this his boy, that pleading, shaken voice? He looked out: the lad was fingering Miss Strong’s white apron nervously. She leaned over the railing of the little porch, her hand on his shoulder.
“You tell her about it—I’ll never smoke another one. It was the last thing she asked me.”
“I’ll tell her—she will be so pleased, I know. She asked about you yesterday. I’ll let you know as soon as I can.”
Belden, a little later, hurried downstairs, with a confused idea of thanking her. On the threshold of the library he paused, amazed. Dr. Hitchcock sat before a small green baize table, studying five playing-cards held fan-shape in his left hand. Opposite him sat Miss Strong, holding the pack expectantly.
“You can give me two, my dear, I think,” he said as Belden entered. Looking up, he smiled apologetically.
“I dare say you are surprised,” he suggested, “but I have been much exasperated, Mr. Belden, and a long experience has taught me that nothing so quickly clears the mind as throwing a few hands of poker. Miss Strong—an invaluable person—is kindly assisting me. Did I say three? Yes, of course. Thank you. We are playing for beans only, you see.”
Belden watched them curiously. She sat as imperturbably as by Caddy’s bedside, her eyes fixed thoughtfully on her cards.
“—And raise you three,” she said.