The man laughed mirthlessly.
“Angry? No, child. I wonder if I––no, better not. It’s time to be off. Give me a kiss, and I’ll say good-night.”
CHAPTER VII
LESLIE GREY FULFILS HIS DESTINY
It was early morning. Early even for the staff of the Rodney House Hotel. And Leslie Grey was about to breakfast. The solitary waitress the hotel boasted was laying the tables for the eight-o’clock meal. The room had not yet assumed the spick-and-span appearance which it would wear later on. There was a suggestion of last night’s supper about the atmosphere; and the girl, too, who moved swiftly here and there arranging the tables, was still clad in her early morning, frowsy print dress, and her hair showed signs of having been hastily adjusted without the aid of a looking-glass. A sight of her suggested an abrupt rising at the latest possible moment.
From the kitchen beyond a savoury odour of steak and coffee penetrated the green baize swing-door which stood at one end of the room.
“Is that steak nearly ready?” asked Grey irritably, as the girl flicked some crumbs from the opposite end of his table on to the floor, with that deft flourish of a dirty napkin which waitresses usually obtain.
She paused in her work, and her hand went up consciously to the screws of paper which adorned her front hair.