“Please take a seat,” Laura said, and Lindsay took one. He had a demon of self-consciousness that possessed him often, here he felt dumb. Nor did he in the very least expect Mr. Harris. He crossed his legs in greater discomfort than he had dreamed possible, looking at Laura, who sat down like a third stranger, curiously detached from any sense of hospitality.
“Mr. Lindsay is anxious about his soul, Mr. Harris,” she said pleasantly. “I guess you can tell him what to do as well as I can.”
“Oh!” Lindsay began, but Mr. Harris had the word. “Is he?” said Mr. Harris, without looking up from his paper. “Well, what I've got to say on that subject I say at the evenin' meetin', which is a proper an' a public place. He can hear it there any day of the week.”
“I think I have already heard,” remarked Lindsay, “what you have to say.”
“Then that's all right,” said Mr. Harris, with his eyes still upon his newspaper. He appeared to devour it. Laura looked from one to the other of them and fell upon an expedient.
“If you'll excuse me,” she said, “I'll just get you that bicycle story you were kind enough to lend me, Mr. Harris, and you can take it with you. The Ensign's got it,” and she left the room. Lindsay glanced round, and promptly announced to himself that he could not come there again. It was taking too violent an advantage. The pursuit of an angel does not imply that you may trap her in her corner under the Throne. The place was divided by a calico curtain, over which plainly showed the top of a mosquito curtain—she slept in there. On the walls were all tender texts about loving and believing and bearing others' burdens, interspersed with photographs, mostly of women with plain features and enthusiastic eyes, dressed in some strange costume of the Army in Madras, Ceylon, China. A little wooden table stood against the wall holding an album, a Bible and hymn-books, a work-basket and an irrelevant Japanese doll which seemed to stretch its absurd arms straight out in a gay little ineffectual heathen protest. There was another more embarrassing table: it had a coarse cloth; and was garnished with a loaf and butter-dish, a plate of plantains and a tin of marmalade, knives and teacups for a meal evidently impending. It was atrociously, sordidly intimate, with its core in Harris, who when Miss Filbert had well gone from the room looked up. “If you're here on private business,” he said to Lindsay, fixing his eyes, however, on a point awkwardly to the left of him, “maybe you ain't aware that the Ensign”—he threw his head back in the direction of the next room—“is the person to apply to. She's in command here. Captain Filbert's only under her.”
“Indeed?” said Lindsay. “Thanks.”
“It ain't like it is in the Queen's army,” Harris volunteered, still searching Lindsay's vicinity for a point upon which his eyes could permanently rest, “where, if you remember, Ensigns are the smallest officer we have.”
“The commission is, I think, abolished,” replied Lindsay, governing a deep and irritated frown.
“Maybe so. This Army don't pretend to pattern very close on the other—not in discipline anyhow,” said Mr. Harris with ambiguity. “But you'll find Ensign Sand very willing to do anything she can for you. She's a hard-working officer.”