Bernard told his story in detail.
“I wonder who he can be?” Dolly said, nursing her chin in her hand.
“He was an awfully plucky chap, whoever he was. I never saw anything neater than the way he turned that machine up the bank; he kept so jolly cool. And he made his head spin, too, I’d bet; he’d got a lump on his forehead the size of a seed-potato, but he never said a word about it. Yes, he was plucky. I like that sort.”
“Was he a gentleman?”
“Rather! A regular dude to look at; all his things were made in town, I guess.”
“And coming to stay with the Mertons. I do wonder who he is?”
“Nobody we shall ever know, anyhow.”
“Don’t be so sure of that,” said Dolly, wisely. “I shall ask Mr. de Saumarez.”
Next morning Lucian came tapping at one of the less honourable doors of Fanes, and was bidden enter by a preoccupied voice. He found Dolly hard at work, with sleeves rolled to the shoulders; she was in the second dairy, but her occupation had no fellowship with butter, cream, or cheese. A cool, dark, and lofty chamber it was, the walls midway to the roof being covered with white glazed tiles, the floor with red. Waist-high stood out a broad white shelf, now piled with square frames of unpainted deal confining square panes of glass, upon one of which Dolly was spreading soft white pomade with a palette-knife. A bushel-basket half filled with violets stood beside her; the air reeked with the scent of them. Lucian’s curiosity found vent in the natural inquiry:
“What on earth are you doing?”