She was holding the quarto to the light, screwing up her face while her eyes roved across the page. Something flickered to the floor. I stooped and picked it up: a flake of moss.
“That’s funny,” I said. “Some servant nodded when he dusted here. Well, how do you like it?”
“Too many f’s. I get all tangled up reading.”
“Those aren’t f’s; they’re s’s. You’ll get used to them soon. Poor Cosgrove would have revelled in this.”
“Oh, Cosgrove. Funny things he revelled in.” Suddenly she snapped the quarto closed, and gave a careful look toward the harmless Ludlow, whose book was still held defiantly against the light, shutting out the universe. She lowered her voice. “Say, Mr. Bannerlee, remember the day I came down here, the way Cosgrove was watching me, like a fish?”
Before I could put in a restraining word, she began a hasty whispered account of events occurring some months ago, when Cosgrove, already engaged to Paula Lebetwood, met Lib for the first time at Coventry. Unquestionably, the orthodox Irishman had been shocked at the daring dress, behaviour, and speech of this insouciant American minx. Mingled with his disapproval, however, was a strong spell of attraction which caused him to be constantly hanging about in her presence. I believe that just as the element of unexpectedness in Miss Lebetwood’s broadly capable character was in a large measure responsible for his desire for her, why here in this alert, sharp wasp of a girl, was also something Cosgrove had not experienced before, something tantalizing that would not let him be at peace. His attentions to Lib, so I gathered from her story, had grown more obnoxious as the days went by, and reached their climax one evening when by her bad luck he happened to find her alone at the far end of one of the gardens.
I had some difficulty at this point in following the extraordinary language of Miss Dale, especially since her speech now became spiced with a good many terms expressive of emotion. But it is clear enough that Cosgrove, detaining her in spite of her unambiguous complaints, entered into a long exhortation over her, more like a fanatical Puritan than a son of the Church. At first Lib had been bewildered, then frightened, for mingled with the Irishman’s obloquy was a strain which at first she could not comprehend at all, but soon realized was an appeal to “make his banner her banner,” an invitation of no uncertain tenour to “ride by his side through the high places of the world.” The union of repulsion and fascination under which he must have laboured, as shown in this outburst, was identical with what I had observed on his face at the luncheon table.
“And that’s the kind of a bozo Cosgrove was,” perorated Lib. “That’s the blighter (isn’t that what you say?) that everybody around here thinks was lily-white. That’s the Eringobragh that Paula’s eating her heart out on account of his death!”
“Do you think so?”
“Do I? Don’t I! Say, I know Paula. She’s the best kid on this little ol’ earth. Bannerlee, my boy, just because I like to talk like a fool half the time and can’t get back on the rails the rest, don’t get me wrong. I love Paula: I have ever since when I was dressed in a towel and she used to keep me from breaking my neck a dozen times every day. What I mean is, I know Paula. She hasn’t been natural for months, not since she got engaged to this devil. She was a darn good sport and peppy all day long, not one of these heavy thinkers. But ever since this Cosgrove got so big on the horizon, she’s been worrying for him—you know—the ‘King in Ireland’ stuff—or worrying about him—the dog! And since somebody polished him off with that rock, instead of feeling better, she’s acting so quiet and intense I’m scared to death. Honestly, I’ve been crazy-scared. Last night she just sat and thought. I hardly slept last night. I heard you going downstairs awfully early this A.M.”