“How was that?”
“Well, I hurt it, and did not pay attention to it. It is properly inflamed now.”
I took a seat on the red stuff sofa without being invited, and Bevere dropped into his chair. The lady at the tea-tray had been regarding me with a free, friendly, unabashed gaze. She was a well-grown, attractive young woman, with a saucy face and bright complexion, fine dark eyes, and full red lips. Her abundant hair was of the peculiar and rare colour that some people call red and others gold. As to her manners, they were as assured as Miss Panken’s, but a great deal pleasanter. I wondered who she was and what she did there.
“So this is Johnny Ludlow that I’ve heard tell of!” she exclaimed, catching up my name from Bevere, and sending me a gracious nod. “Shall I give you a cup of tea?”
“No, thank you,” was my answer, though all the while as thirsty as a fish, for the afternoon was hot.
“Oh, you had better: don’t stand on ceremony,” she said, laughing. “There’s nothing like a good cup of tea when the throat’s dry and the weather’s baking. Come! make yourself at home.”
“Be quiet, Lizzie,” struck in Bevere, his tone ringing with annoyance and pain. “Let Mr. Ludlow do as he pleases.” And it struck me that he did not want me to take the tea.
Scott came in then, and looked surprised to see me: he had been out to get something for Bevere’s arm. I felt by intuition that he had known where Bevere was all along, that his assumption of ignorance was a pretence. He and the young lady seemed to be upon excellent terms, as though they had been acquainted for ages.
The arm looked very bad: worse than it had at Gibraltar Terrace. I stood by when Scott took off the bandages. He touched it here and there.
“I tell you what, Bevere,” he said: “you had better let Pitt see to this again. He got it right before; and—I don’t much like the look of it.”