She went down the spiral staircase and confronted him.
“What have you been doing to your hair? It’s like Ferdinand’s in The Tempest. And;” noticing a new note of violence in the customary peaceful chaos of the studio, “why have you been kicking my cushions about?”
“My uncle has gone stick, stark, staring, raving, lunatic mad,” said Tommy.
He turned on his heel and strode to the other end of the studio. Clementina threw the parrot-tulips on a chair and drew off her left-hand old cotton glove, which she cast on the tulips. Then for a while, during Tommy’s retreat and approach, she gazed thoughtfully at the thumb-tip which protruded from the right-hand glove.
“I’m not at all surprised,” she said, when Tommy joined her.
“How else can you account for it?” cried Tommy, flinging his arms wide.
“Account for what?”
“What he has done. Listen. A week ago he came to see me, as jolly as could be. You were there——”
“About as jolly as a slug,” said Clementina.
“Anyway he was all right. I told the dear old chap I had unaccountably exceeded my allowance—and he sent me a cheque next day, just as he always does. This afternoon a card is brought up to me—my uncle’s card. Written on it in his handwriting: ‘To introduce Mr. Theodore Vandermeer.’ ”