Tom Tiddler's Island, стр. 25
“It was nice of you to ask them to tennis, Colin,” Jean said approvingly. “You’re not half such an old bear as you pretend to be. And you know, Colin, that girl must have had a ghastly dull time of it here. She wasn’t grousing about it to me; she isn’t the grousing sort; but she let slip one or two things that made me realise what it’s been like. It might not be so bad for a man; but just think how deadly lonely it must have been for a girl like that, week after week, with no one to talk to except the Dinnets, until your Northfleet man turned up.”
“Well, he didn’t turn up here on her account,” said Colin triumphantly. “So your intricate methods were off the mark there, my dear Watson. He’d never met her until he came here.”
“Score to you? Well, I can tell you something I was right in. They’re not engaged, just as I told you. Candidly, Colin, I think your man Northfleet’s a bit of an ass. They’re just made for each other; and why the idiot hasn’t asked her to marry him, I can’t conceive.”
“He might have had a dash at it, certainly,” Colin agreed. “One of the slow-but-sure brigade, evidently.”
“What I can’t make out is why he and she didn’t play tennis occasionally to pass the time,” Jean went on. “The courts were there for them and there was nobody at Wester Voe. I’m sure the Dinnets wouldn’t have objected.”
“Northfleet’s got moral scruples about pushing in without an invitation—thank goodness!” Colin explained. “That’s probably why. He’s not a friend of Craigmore’s, it seems, so perhaps he felt it would be going over the score to use the courts without express permission.”
“Is he still the same as he was when you knew him before,” Jean demanded. “You said he was tight-lipped, or something. Didn’t talk much. Well, to-night at dinner he kept up his end of the conversation well enough, surely.”
“Yes,” Colin rejoined. “And how much did you learn about him from it all? He’s just the same as he used to be—tells you just as much as he wants to, and not a scrap more.”
“That’s true,” Jean admitted in a reflective tone. “He didn’t get autobiographical. I was rather dreading that he might, Colin, and then you and he would have started off talking about dear old friends that I never heard of, and ruined the evening. He didn’t do that, sensible man.”
“Neither did I,” protested Colin. “You give him all the credit, of course. Off you go to bed. I’ll come up in a minute or two when I’ve locked up the door.”
Jean lingered for a moment or two before going.
“That old Mr. Arrow must be a weirdish bird,” she ruminated aloud. “I’m glad Hazel explained things. I was getting a bit worried about that lot at Heather Lodge. But I can quite understand the old boy’s feelings. See that you make that front door fast, Colin.”
CHAPTER VII
THE UNDERGROUND PASSAGE
“MAY I offer anybody some more tea?” Jean inquired, as she put her own cup on the garden table. “You’re not supposed to accept, for there’s no more hot water in the kettle; but it sounds polite to ask you. Cigarettes, Colin.”
“Aren’t you going to start again?” Colin asked, with a nod towards the courts in front of them.
“I don’t think I care about another set just immediately,” Jean decided. “I’d rather sit here quietly for a while before tackling violent exercise.”
“Boa constrictors feel much the same, at times,” Colin commented darkly.
Indignantly Jean sat up and called her guests to witness.
“You’re not suggesting that I’ve over-eaten myself on the strength of two bits of bread-and-butter, one rock-cake, and a potato scone, are you? That’s all I’ve had for tea; and I can bring two credible witnesses to swear to it, if necessary. No, I just feel lazy. If you’re desperately energetic, Colin, can’t you run away and find something to amuse you: fish for tittle-bats in the lily-pond or widen your education by reading the labels of the flower-beds?”
Then a more acceptable suggestion occurred to her.
“Didn’t you promise to show Mr. Northfleet that secret passage?”
“Go down there in flannels?” Colin inquired protestingly.
“Flannels can be washed, even on Ruff a,” Jean pointed out. “And besides, there’s no need to rub yourself against the walls all the way along, is there?”
Northfleet gave a silent vote in favour of Jean’s proposal by rising from his chair.
“You see, Colin?” Jean quoted maliciously, “Everyone says, ‘Run along, there’s a little darling.’ Take the hint, dear. Hazel and I have heaps to talk about. In fact, I don’t think I want to play any more tennis before dinner; so you can fill in the time till then for yourself.” Colin shrugged his shoulders in mock resignation.
“Very well. If I don’t come to the surface again—No Flowers, By Request.”
“Colin! You don’t think it’s dangerous?” Jean demanded with a faint disquiet.
“There’ll be lots of spiders,” Colin prophesied gloomily. “But cheer up! If any spider dares to gnash its teeth at me, I’ll make it rue the day. What I’m really afraid of is one of them dropping down my neck and biting me in the spinal cord. I’m almost sure these brutes never brush their teeth—haven’t a tooth-brush amongst the lot. Bite’s sure to be septic.”
Jean shivered instinctively.
“That’s quite enough, Colin. You know I simply loathe spiders, and you’re making me feel creepy all over with that sort of talk.”
“Spiders!” said Colin resentfully. “I once lived in an old country house where they used to march downstairs and bark in your face, they were so mettlesome. I’m accustomed to spiders. Lead me to them.”
And with the air of a martyr preparing to face the lions he rose from the tea-table. When they reached the house, Northfleet procured a small parcel which he had brought with him that afternoon.
“I