“What are you going to do, Clementina?” he asked.
“A thousand things. First I must go upstairs and see whether the child’s awake. I hate trusting her with that heathen imbecile.”
“Au revoir, then,” said Quixtus, moving away.
“Come back in good time to make the child’s acquaintance,” she shouted after him.
He paused on the threshold and looked at her irresolutely. He had a nervous dread of meeting the child.
He walked through the sun-filled streets, down the Cannebière, absently watched the baking quays, and then, returning to the main thoroughfare, sat down beneath the awning of a café. An hour passed. It was time to go back and see his ward. He shrank morbidly from the ordeal. With a great effort he rose at last and walked to the hotel.
Clementina, Poynter, and the child were in the vestibule, the two elders seated in the wickerwork chairs; the little one squatting on the ground at their feet and playing with the mongrel and somewhat supercilious dog of the hotel. Quixtus halted in front of the group. The child lifted her flower-like face to the new-comer.
“Is this——” he began.
“This is Sheila,” said Clementina. “Get up, dear, and say how d’ye do to your new uncle.”
She held out her hand with shy politeness—he looked so long and gaunt, and towered over her tiny self.