Tom Tiddler's Island, стр. 4
Colin nodded sympathetically.
“I know. Humanity in the mass is never at its best.”
“And the ‘young bride’ business. I just revelled in it at first; but after a bit it began to pall. You know what I mean, Colin. The way the strangers at the next table look at you covertly when they think you don’t see them. ‘That’s a young bride on her honeymoon.’ And the middle-aged women looking you up and down, half-envious and half-superior. And the middle-aged men staring at me and envying you—oh, yes, I know they did,” asserted Jean, who had a very fair appreciation of her own good looks. “And that whole atmosphere of benevolent curiosity—you know what I mean? The edge was beginning to go off it all. I want a change, something quieter and more soothing, without that perpetual racket in the background. I was beginning to get tired of it.”
She clung to her husband’s arm as they walked up through the field of lupins.
“Quiet enough here, certainly,” Colin admitted, looking over the empty landscape. “No jabbering humanity, no racket, no one to stare at you, bar Dinnet.”
“That ‘fac-to-tum’ man’s a priceless dear,” Jean confessed. “So diplomatic, isn’t he? I thought I’d cornered him into contradicting you over the fishery boat, but he slid out of it gracefully, without so much as a smile.”
“Seems a decent sort,” Colin assented.
“I wonder what the girl at the other house is like,” Jean went on after a pause. “What’s her name? Arrow, or something. We might have them across for bridge, now and again, Colin, if you’re afraid of being dull. The ‘fac-to-tum’ seem impressed in her favour, didn’t he? That looks as if she might be nice.”
“Great judge of character, Dinnet,” her husband confirmed. “You saw the way he took to me on the spot, didn’t you? Knows sterling worth when he sees it, evidently.”
“Well, you’re rather nice on the outside,” Jean retorted in a mock-judicial tone, stepping back a pace as though to examine him critically. “I’ve often wondered how you’d sound over the wireless. ‘Missing from his home, etc., Colin Trent, age twenty-seven, five feet nine in height, clean-shaven, fair hair, blue eyes, dressed in nondescript plus-four suit with one button loose through his habit of fiddling with it. This man is of weak intellect and makes feeble jokes continually.’ That’s what I shall send to the B.B.C. if ever you go astray.”
“That’s mine, is it?” Colin responded. “Well, here’s yours. ‘Missing, and so forth, Jean Trent, age twenty-three, five feet seven, brown hair, brown eyes, brown face, brown shoes and stockings. Dressed in the fashion before last. This woman chatters continually, and may be accompanied by a husband wearing cotton-wool in his ears.’ That ticks you off, my dear. Enough of this foolery! Brace yourself to encounter the housekeeper. Much may depend on the first impression you make, and your tact in the matter of menus. After what we’ve heard, you’d better not pitch your demands too high. This isn’t the Ritz, but it’ll be gruesome if we have to live on fried eggs thrice a day because she can’t cook anything else. Can you cook, by the way. I forgot to ask you before. Funny how these important things get overlooked.”
“Well, I can boil the eggs for you, if you want a change. That should cheer you up, Colin. Now stop being an ass. There she is at the door, waiting for us. She looks rather nice: just the sort of wife I’d have expected the ‘fac-to-tum’ to marry.”
On closer approach, Mrs. Dinnet proved to be a small, brisk person with rosy cheeks and prematurely whitened hair. She gave them a welcome in which cordiality was nicely blended with respect.
“Dinner will be ready in half an hour, ma’am,” she explained. “Dinnet will be bringing your luggage up from the boat immediately. Perhaps, after that long journey, you’d like a hot bath, ma’am?”
“Thanks, I should,” Jean agreed. “I expect you feel rather grimy, too, Colin. But I’d like to see round the house first, if there’s time.”
Mrs. Dinnet’s manner suggested that this proposal had her warm approval. It was clear that she took an almost possessive pride in Wester Voe and preferred that they should make its acquaintance under her guidance.
“Certainly, ma’am. Dinner can be put back a quarter of an hour, if you like. If you will just come with me. . . . This is the dining-room,” she explained, throwing open a door to the right of the entrance hall.
She ushered them into a broad, low-ceiling room with windows on the east and south looking out over the cove. The table, with its shining silver and crystal, reassured Colin as to the probable quality of his future meals.
“That is the service-door, sir,” Mrs. Dinnet explained, as he showed some signs of investigating the premises beyond it. “Here is the cellar-book, sir. Perhaps you will choose what you would like this evening, and Dinnet will see to it if you will tell him. Mr. Craigmore left particular instructions that you were to please yourselves.” Jean had gone over to the table and was examining the chairs with the air of an expert. Old furniture was one of her idols, though finance constrained her to worship from afar. Mrs. Dinnet watched her with approval.
“Yes, ma’am,” she explained, as though in answer to an unvoiced question, “these chairs are Hepplewhite’s. Mr. Craigmore prefers old furniture. Except for the lounge, and the bathroom, there’s hardly anything in the house less than a hundred years old.”
Stye led the way across the hall into a drawing-room which further roused Jean’s ungratifiable cravings.
“This room is not much used, ma’am, except when ladies come here. Gentlemen prefer the lounge, which is next door.”
She stood aside again to let them pass out; but Jean had gone across to the windows and was looking down over