“Won’t my little Clara look a treat standing behind a bar, serving the drinks and singing out, ‘Time, gentlemen, please!’ Can’t you see her scraping the froth off the mugs?”
He fell into a rapt silence, and said no more while Sam escorted him through the back door of San Rafael and led him into the kitchen.
There, rightly considering that the sacred scene of re-union was not for his eyes, Sam turned away. Gently depositing the nether garments of Mr. Molloy on the table, he left them together and made his way to the drawing-room.
§ 3
The first thing he heard as he opened the door was Kay’s voice.
“I don’t care,” she was saying. “I simply don’t believe it.”
He went in and discovered that she was addressing her uncle, Mr. Wrenn, and the white-bearded Mr. Cornelius. They were standing together by the mantelpiece, their attitude the sheepish and browbeaten one of men who have been rash enough to argue with a woman. Mr. Wrenn was fiddling with his tie, and Mr. Cornelius looked like a druid who is having a little unpleasantness with the widow of the deceased.
Sam’s entrance was the signal for an awkward silence.
“Hullo, Mr. Wrenn,” said Sam. “Good evening, Mr. Cornelius.”
Mr. Wrenn looked at Mr. Cornelius. Mr. Cornelius looked at Mr. Wrenn.