“There’s no such thing. Let me do it now: you’ve proved your powers.”
“No,” said Lal; “no.” His eye rested on a copy of the local paper; in a trice he had it folded firmly with sharp edges, and was bending it into a convenient receptacle for the débris, which he emptied into the fire. Then he dusted the furniture with his handkerchief and put everything back in place, twitching the ragged hearth-rug straight to the eighth of an inch and arranging all the chairs in pairs exactly.
“But it should have been scrubbed,” he wound up, with a sigh of regret.
“I won’t have it; Mrs. Searle wouldn’t know her own room. Do you know, I never thought a man could have so—could be—”
“Could have so much sense,” Lal finished, quaintly.
“Well, I didn’t. Where did you learn how to do it?” said Dolly, laughing.
“Miss Fane, I have a pair of eyes, and our rooms at home are swept sometimes.”
“Ah, but you’ve the hands, too.”
“I know it,” Lal said, displaying them with disgust. Dolly looked, with a wise little nod, and went into the scullery; she brought back a fresh towel, a piece of yellow soap, and a tin basin full of clean hot water.
“That is good,” Lal said, plunging in his hands with an air of relief. Dolly was looking at her own. “I think I’ll wash, too,” she said; and without more ado stripped back her cuffs and slipped her fingers in beside Lal’s. The sunlight sparkled in the water and flashed in silver circles, following the curve of the white metal. Dolly chased the piece of soap all round the basin, and Lal captured it and gave it to her; her wrist was soft to the touch as a baby’s. Lal was warmly alive to the charm of the moment, and would have prolonged it; not so Dolly. She withdrew her hands with the same indifference as though Bernard had been her partner. They were obliged to share the same towel; there were but two in Mrs. Searle’s establishment.