To-night he set down the kerosene lamp upon the table, which had a serge cover of a good shade of blue. He surveyed the well-upholstered sofa, with silk cushions of the same blue. He tried, with doubled fist, the springs of the deep easy-chair. He stared at the tall glass vases and glazed pots, and dimly recalled the fact that in his mother's lifetime these had been wont to hold flowers. A girl would like, perhaps, to see flowers in a room. He believed there were some in the yard; but he paid no attention to them, and never gathered any. A deep sigh escaped him at the thought of his inability to cope with the situation in general.
He strolled back with his lamp into the tiled kitchen.
Should he consult Amurrica? The Yankee was the only one of all the set for whom he entertained anything but a profound and steady contempt. And Amurrica was, he knew, untrustworthy. He had a secret fear—which brought the blood to his head when he considered it—that Amurrica himself was "on to Millie." It was possible that the Lutwyches might consider an American more akin to themselves than the son of a Boer. Even as he turned the delicate subject over and over in his thoughts, there came a tap at his door, and a long whistle, which told him that the man who occupied his thoughts stood upon his threshold.
He went and opened, standing aside as the visitor sauntered in, and manifesting no curiosity as to the reason of so late a call. Amurrica shut the door carefully behind him, and walked to the clean hearth. His face was of the hatchet variety, not handsome, but keen, with that eagle keenness which is the hall-mark of a certain type of American. The humour in his half-closed hazel eyes atoned for their lack of size; the composure of his manner hid his real thoughts from sight. Bert had never before considered him formidable, but to-night he was conscious of a foreboding as he mechanically produced the whisky-jar from a corner cupboard, and pushed it across the table. Amurrica sat down.
His eye roved around restless until it lighted upon the spittoon in the corner by the hearth. He made his shot with precision, and then, laying his pipe on the table, began to pour whisky into a tumbler.
"'S come at last," he observed.
"What?" asked Bert, slouching in his chair, his listless eyes on the fading red glimmer between the bars of the stove.
Amurrica shifted slightly in his seat, so as to face his host squarely. He took a pull at his whisky before replying casually:
"Lutwyche is cuttin' the stick."
There was silence. Bert knew he was being watched; felt instinctively that the time had come. With no other word spoken, he knew that they were rivals; that it would be perhaps a question of which man was prepared to give most to the Boer step-mother for the attainment of what he desired. He must feign indifference; for aught he knew, Amurrica might have his shooting-iron in his pocket.