“Well, of course, if I have made things pleasanter for him, incidentally, in doing it for you, I’m glad.”
“That’s the only thing you’ve disappointed me in. I wanted you and him to be good friends. I think he has tried, but you have been stubborn; there’s no denying that, pet.”
“I’ve tried my very hardest. I’m sorry, Martin. You’ll have to give me time.”
“Give you all the time you want,” he cried gayly. “But you’ll have to come round in the end.” She shrugged her shoulders half seriously, half teasingly, but a reply was obviated by the entrance of the Maclaughlins and of the person under discussion.
The Englishman, beak nosed, high nostrilled, fair, and tall, was typical of his race. But drink had dulled his eye, his skin was flabby, and an unspeakable air of degeneration hung about him. Even the exaggerated deference of his manner to Mrs. Collingwood seemed a travesty upon the once easy courtesy of the well-born Briton. As for Charlotte, she stiffened perceptibly. Try as she would, she could not overcome her proud resentment at being expected to associate with John Kingsnorth.
“Any special plans for to-day, Mrs. Collingwood?” Kingsnorth demanded as they sat down to breakfast.
“There never are any, I believe. I am going to make a lemon pie under the direct supervision of Mrs. Maclaughlin. My husband has impressed it upon me that I can never fulfil his ideal of a cook till I can make such lemon pies as Mrs. Maclaughlin does.”
In a second Kingsnorth’s manner changed, just a fine hostile change which implied that no pie made by Mrs. Maclaughlin’s recipes could interest him. “With limoncitos” he said slightingly, “or with those big knotty yellow things that the women use in laundering their camisas?”
“Why, you are quite up in native customs,” Charlotte exclaimed. “I didn’t know that. Are you sure?”
A faintly cynical smile played for an instant over Kingsnorth’s features. “Oh, yes, I’m sure,” he replied.