“Ah, well, there's no more to be said of our suspicions,” said MacTaggart. “Not in this form, at least.” And he was preparing to go.
A skirt rustled within the inner door, and Mrs. Petullo, flushed a little to her great becoming in spite of a curl-paper or two, and clad in a lilac-coloured negligee of the charmingest, came into the office with a well-acted start of surprise to find a client there.
“Oh, good morning! Mr. MacTaggart,” she exclaimed, radiantly, while her husband scowled to himself, as he relapsed into the chair at his desk and fumbled with his papers. “Good morning; I hope I have not interrupted business?”
“Mr. MacTaggart was just going, my dear,” said Mr. Petullo.
A cracked bell rang within, and the Chamberlain perceived an odour of cooking celery. Inwardly he cursed his forgetfulness, because it was plain that the hour for his call upon the writer was ill-chosen.
“My twelve-hours is unusual sharp to-day,” said Petullo, consulting a dumpy horologe out of his fob. “Would ye—would ye do me the honour of joining me?” with a tone that left, but not too rudely, immediate departure as the Chamberlain's only alternative.
“Thank you, thank you,” said MacTaggart. “I rose late to-day, and my breakfast's little more than done with.” He made for the door, Mrs. Petullo close in his cry and holding his eye, defying so hurried a departure, while she kept up a chattering about the last night's party. Her husband hesitated, but his hunger (he had the voracious appetite of such shrivelled atomies) and a wholesome fear of being accused of jealousy made him withdraw, leaving the office to the pair.
All MacTaggart's anger rose against madame for her machination. “You saw me from the window,” said he; “it's a half-cooked dinner for the goodman to-day, I'll warrant!”
She laughed a most intoxicating laugh, all charged with some sweet velvety charm, put out her hands, and caught his. “Oh, Lord! I wish it would choke him, Sim,” said she, fervently, then lifted up her mouth and dropped a swooning eyelash over her passionate orbs.
“Adorable creature,” he thought: “she'll have rat-bane in his broth some day.” He kissed her with no more fervour than if she had been a wooden figurehead, but she was not thus to be accepted: she put an arm quickly round his neck and pressed her passionate lips to his. Back he drew wincing. “Oh, damnation!” he cried.