“Quite a little man now,” remarked Macteith, and proceeded to enquire as to where was the nearest and best Home-from-Home in Mombasa, where one could have A-Drink-and-a-Little-Music-what-what?
“I am staying at the Mombasa Hotel,” said Bertram coldly, to which Macteith replied that he hoped it appreciated its privilege.
Bertram felt that he hated Macteith, but also had a curious sense that that young gentleman had either lost in stature or that he, Bertram, had gained. . . . Anyhow he had seen War, and, so far, Macteith had not. He had no sort of fear of anything Macteith could say or do—and he’d welcome any opportunity of demonstrating the fact. . . . Dirty little worm! Chatting gaily with Murray, he took them to the Mombasa Club and there found a note from Mrs. Stayne-Brooker asking him to come to tea on the morrow.
* * * * *
“I won’t attempt to offer condolence nor express my absolute sympathy, Mrs. Stayne-Brooker,” said Bertram as he took her hand and led her to her favourite settee.
“Don’t,” said she.
“My heart aches for you, though,” he added.
“It need not,” replied Mrs. Stayne-Brooker, and, as Bertram looked his wonder at her enigmatic reply and manner, she continued:
“I will not pretend to you. I will be honest. Your heart need not ache for me at all—because mine sings with relief and gratitude and joy. . . .”
Bertram’s jaw fell in amazement. He felt inexpressibly shocked.