"My sister, Mrs. Purcell, describes you as being like an Italian," she was saying; "and I quite agree with her--don't you, Mr. Mallow?"
"Certainly, Mr. Carson has the appearance of a Tuscan."
"My mother was Eurasian," explained the young man; "I am supposed to take after her. There is a great similarity between dark people, don't you think so? Yes?"
"Well, putting negroes out of the question, I suppose there is, more or less," assented Mallow. He thought Carson much more like the pure Italian than the Englishman of mixed blood. Certainly there was no hint of the Anglo-Saxon about him.
"So Mrs. Purcell has been giving you my character," said Carson, smiling blandly on Miss Slarge.
"Oh dear me, yes. She wrote me quite a long account of you--all about your looks, and conversation, and I don't know what else."
"Really? I feel flattered by the notice she has taken of me. I confess I should very much like to see that letter."
"If you like I will read you those parts of it which refer to you," said Miss Slarge, amiably. "You will see then how keen an observer my sister is. Excuse me, I will fetch the letter."
As Miss Slarge slipped out of the room on her errand, Mallow detected a sigh from Carson--a sigh that sounded like one of relief. At the same time he appeared--so Mallow thought--to be uneasy, and while continuing his conversation he frequently glanced at the Major. Semberry instinctively became aware of this, and once or twice turned his head. Finally he left Miss Ostergaard, and came slowly across the room, as though drawn in spite of himself to the side of his friend. Again Mallow heard from Carson a sigh of relief, after which his uneasiness gave place to a more confident manner, and he presented Major Semberry to Laurence with perfect ease.
"We need no introduction," said Mallow, smiling. "Major Semberry and I met at Simla some few months back.
"Ah, yes," replied Semberry, in his crisp, abrupt way; "Mallow the sportsman. I remember."
"Say, rather, Mallow the scribe--in India, Major. It was my mission to scribble out there."
"By George, yes. Read some of your letters in paper. You dropped on us hot, Mallow--deuced hot. What are you doing in these parts?"
"Idling, Major, at the expense of Lord Aldean."
"Met him in London," said Semberry, staccato; "nice boy, make good Army man. No brains, plenty muscle."
"Oh, Aldean has a good deal more mental power than people give him credit for."
"Dark horse, eh?"
"Well, he may yet prove to be so. As to your no brains for the Army,' Major, I fancy you depreciate your profession. They don't make the fool of the family a soldier now--they certainly did not in your case."
The Major acknowledged the compliment with a bow, but did not reply.
"Do you know, Semberry, that I am about to hear my character?" said Carson, blandly.
"Eh, what? From our friend here?"
"No," explained Mallow; "it seems that Mrs. Purcell has written an account of Mr. Carson to Miss Slarge, and your friend is to hear it verbatim."
From long exposure to the sun, the natural hue of Semberry's complexion was brick-dust, yet at this it became still more red, and he put up a hand and tugged uneasily at his moustache. His manner reflected the recent anxiety of Carson, and Mallow was at once on the alert to discover the cause of their joint discomfort. There was a hint of mystery about the swift glances they exchanged which piqued his curiosity, and from that moment he was silently observant of their every look and word. What he expected to learn he hardly knew, but that there was something to be learned he felt convinced. But then Mallow was distinctly prejudiced against Carson as his rival.
When the Major's hand came down from his moustache, he observed that "Mrs. Purcell was a charming woman, and that she wrote an amusing letter." He then turned to face Olive, who was approaching with Dr. Drabble.
"It is not kind of you three gentlemen to exclude us from your conversation," she said brightly. "What are you talking about?"
"Mrs. Purcell's letter," said Carson, with a glance of proprietorship. "Miss Slarge has promised to read aloud the character which her sister is so good as to give me."
"It is a better one than you deserve," replied Olive.
"Ha, ha!" roared Drabble, who was a noisy creature at best, "isn't his character to your liking, Miss Bellairs?"
"If it is not," said Carson, before the girl had time to answer, "Olive shall make it to her liking in two months."
Miss Ostergaard, who had joined the group, laughed. "Can an old dog learn new tricks?" she said mischeviously.
"A young puppy might," muttered Mallow, whose hot Irish temper was rapidly rising, both at Carson and at Olive.
He was enraged at the mere fact of the man calling the girl by her Christian name, and he was annoyed at the complacent way in which she seemed to listen to him and his babble. Luckily for the peace of the moment, his remark passed unheard by all save Tui, and she nodded approbation.
"What ridiculous things you say, Tui," said Olive, with pretended severity.
"Extraordinary name, 'Tui,'" called out Drabble, elegantly. "What does it mean, Miss Ostergaard?"
"It means me, in the first place, Dr. Drabble," she replied smartly; "and in the second it is the native name for the New Zealand parson bird."
"By George, parson bird!"
"Why rookery, Miss Ostergaard? or, to be more precise, why parson bird?"
"Because it is all black, Mr. Mallow--a beautiful glossy black, with two white feathers in its throat like a parson's cravat. We have christened it the parson bird; the Maoris call it the Tui."
"It is inappropriate to you, Miss Ostergaard," said Carson, smiling. "You never preach, I am sure."
"Oh yes, I do; but I keep my sermons for Olive."
"Ho, ho! I should like to be a member of that congregation."
"As an Anarchist, Dr. Drabble, you are not fit to be a member of any. You don't like preaching--other people's preaching, I mean."
"That depends upon the preacher, Miss Ostergaard."
"Madame Death-in-Life, for instance."
With a snarl Drabble turned on Mallow, who had made this remark.
"What do you know of Madame Death-in-Life?" he snapped.
"Only that she is the most noted Anarchist in Europe," retorted Mallow, coolly. "Why not? I know her, you know her, the police know her; and a few stray kings will know her some day to their cost, if she isn't guillotined--as she ought to be.'
"I wonder you know such a horrible woman, Mr. Mallow," said Olive.
"Oh, my acquaintance with her is not personal, Miss Bellairs."
"Neither is mine," said Drabble, who had recovered his good humour. "I don't approve of Madame Death-in-Life's methods. It is not my plan to terrorize the world by bombs and murders. The pen, sir, the pen is mightier than the explosive; so is the tongue. Pamphlets and lectures--that is my system for bringing about the much-needed social millennium. The woman you speak of does harm to the cause; she should be suppressed."
"Just what I said--and by the guillotine."