'That's chorea--St. Vitus's dance,' Mrs. Godfrey put in. 'He ought to have been drowned.'
'But I like his cast of countenance,' the girl persisted.
'He doesn't look a good life,' I said, 'but perhaps he can be patched up.' Miss Sichliffe turned crimson; I saw Mrs. Godfrey exchange a glance with her married daughter, and knew I had said something which would have to be lived down.
'Yes,' Miss Sichliffe went on, her voice shaking, 'he isn't a good life, but perhaps I can--patch him up. Come here, sir.' The misshapen beast lurched toward her, squinting down his own nose till he fell over his own toes. Then, luckily, Bettina ran across the lawn and reminded Malachi of their puppyhood. All that family are as queer as Dick's hatband, and fight like man and wife. I had to separate them, and Mrs. Godfrey helped me till they retired under the rhododendrons and had it out in silence.
'D'you know what that girl's father was?' Mrs. Godfrey asked.
'No,' I replied. 'I loathe her for her own sake. She breathes through her mouth.'
'He was a retired doctor,' she explained. 'He used to pick up stormy young men in the repentant stage, take them home, and patch them up till they were sound enough to be insured. Then he insured them heavily, and let them out into the world again--with an appetite. Of course, no one knew him while he was alive, but he left pots of money to his daughter.'
'Strictly legitimate--highly respectable,' I said. 'But what a life for the daughter!'
'Mustn't it have been! Now d'you realise what you said just now?'
'Perfectly; and now you've made me quite happy, shall we go back to the house?'