Part 7 (2/2)
Estelle moved restlessly on the sofa.
”Well,” she said, ”what on earth am I to do? It's really horribly inconvenient. I suppose I shall have to go back to my people for the winter unless you can afford to let me take a flat in London.”
”I'm afraid I can't afford that,” said Winn. ”I think it would be best for you to go to your people for the winter, unless, of course, you'd rather go to mine. I'm going down there to-morrow; I've written to tell them. I must get my father to let me have some money as it is. It's really an infernal nuisance from the expense point of view.”
”I couldn't go to your people,” said Estelle, stiffly. ”They have never been nice to me; besides, they would be sure to teach baby how to swear.” Then she added, ”I suppose this puts an end to your going to India.”
Winn dropped his eyes.
”Yes,” he said, ”this puts an end to my going back to India for the present. I've been up before the board; they're quite agreeable. In fact, they've been rather decent to me.”
Estelle gave a long sigh of relief and grat.i.tude. It was really extraordinary how she had been helped to avoid India. She couldn't think what made Winn go on sitting there, just playing with the paper-knife.
He sat there for a long time, but he didn't say any more. At last he got up and went to the door.
”Well,” he said, ”I think I'll just run up and have a look at the kid.”
”Poor dear,” said Estelle, ”I'm frightfully sorry for you, of course, though I don't believe it's at all painful--and by the way, Winn, don't forget that consumption is infectious.”
He stopped short as if someone had struck him. After all, he didn't go to the nursery; she heard him go down the pa.s.sage to the smoking-room instead.
CHAPTER VIII
Sir Peter was having his annual attack of gout. Staines Court appeared at these times like a s.h.i.+p battened down and running before a storm.
Figures of pale and frightened maids flickered through the long pa.s.sage-ways. The portly butler violently ejected from the dining-room had been seen pa.s.sing swiftly through the hall, with the ungainly movement of a prehistoric animal startled from its lair.
The room in which Sir Peter sat burned with his language. Eddies of blasphemous sound rushed out and buffeted the landings like a rising gale.
Sir Peter sat in a big arm chair in the center of the room. His figure gave the impression of a fortressed island in the middle of an empty sea. His foot was rolled in bandages and placed on a low stool before him; within reach of his hand was a k.n.o.bbed blackthorn stick, a bell and a copy of the ”Times” newspaper.
Fortunately Lady Staines was impervious to sound and acclimatized to fury. When Sir Peter was well she frequently raised storms, but when he had gout she let him raise them for himself. He was raising one now on the subject of Winn's letter.
”What's that he says? What's that he says?” roared Sir Peter. ”Something the matter with his lungs! That's the first time a Staines has ever spoken of his lungs. The boy's mad. I don't admit it! I don't believe it for a moment, all a d.a.m.ned piece of doctors' rubbish, the chap's a fool to listen to 'em! When has he ever seen me catering to hea.r.s.e-conducting, pocket-filling a.s.ses!”
Charles was home on a twenty-four hours' leave--he stood by the mantelpiece and regarded his parent with undutiful and critical eyes. ”I should say you send for 'em,” he observed, ”whenever you've got a pain; why they're always hangin' about. Look at that table chock full of medicines. 'Nuff to kill a horse--where do they come from?”
”Hold your infernal tongue, Sir!” shouted Sir Peter. ”What do I have 'em for? I have 'em here to expose them! That's why--I just let them try it on, and then hold them up to ridicule! Do you find I ever pay the least attention to 'em, Sarah?” he demanded from his wife.
”Not as a rule,” Lady Staines admitted, ”unless you're very bad indeed, and then you do as you like directly the pain has stopped.”
”Well, why shouldn't I!” said Sir Peter triumphantly. ”Once I get rid of the pain I can do as I like. When I've got red hot needles eating into my toes, am I likely to like anything? Of course not, you may just as well take medicine then as anything else, but as to taking orders from a pack of ill-bred b.u.mpkins, full of witch magic as a dog of fleas, I see myself! Don't stand grinning there, Charles, like a dirty, shock-headed barmaid's dropped hair pin! I won't stand it! I can't see why all my sons should have thin legs, neither you nor I, Sarah, ever went about like a couple of spilikin's. I call it indecent! Why don't you get something inside 'em, Charles, eh? No stamina, that's what it is!
Everybody going to the dogs in motor cars with manicure girls out of their parents' pockets--! Why don't you answer me, Charles, when I speak to you?”
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