“Nothing against him. Why so suspicious of everybody?”
“Because you are just a woolly lamb and want a dog to look after you. Who is he? On a first night he gives away his stall and sneaks into the pit. When you send him to a picture-gallery, he dodges the private view and goes on the first shilling day. If an invitation comes to a public dinner, he asks me to go and eat it for him and tell him what it’s all about. That doesn’t suggest the frank and honest journalist, does it?”
“It is unusual, it certainly is unusual,” Peter was bound to admit.
“I distrust the man,” said Clodd. “He’s not our class. What is he doing here?”
“I will ask him, Clodd; I will ask him straight out.”
“And believe whatever he tells you.”
“No, I shan’t.”
“Then what’s the good of asking him?”
“Well, what am I to do?” demanded the bewildered Peter.
“Get rid of him,” suggested Clodd.
“Get rid of him?”
“Get him away! Don’t have him in and out of the office all day long—looking at her with those collie-dog eyes of his, arguing art and poetry with her in that cushat-dove voice of his. Get him clean away—if it isn’t too late already.”
“Nonsense,” said Peter, who had turned white, however. “She’s not that sort of girl.”
“Not that sort of girl!” Clodd had no patience with Peter Hope, and told him so. “Why are there never inkstains on her fingers now? There used to be. Why does she always keep a lemon in her drawer? When did she last have her hair cut? I’ll tell you if you care to know—the week before he came, five months ago. She used to have it cut once a fortnight: said it tickled her neck. Why does she jump on people when they call her Tommy and tell them that her name is Jane? It never used to be Jane. Maybe when you’re a bit older you’ll begin to notice things for yourself.”
Clodd jammed his hat on his head and flung himself down the stairs.
Peter, slipping out a minute later, bought himself an ounce of snuff.
“Fiddle-de-dee!” said Peter as he helped himself to his thirteenth pinch. “Don’t believe it. I’ll sound her. I shan’t say a word—I’ll just sound her.”
Peter stood with his back to the fire. Tommy sat at her desk, correcting proofs of a fanciful story: The Man Without a Past.
“I shall miss him,” said Peter; “I know I shall.”
“Miss whom?” demanded Tommy.
“Danvers,” sighed Peter. “It always happens so. You get friendly with a man; then he goes away—abroad, back to America, Lord knows where. You never see him again.”
Tommy looked up. There was trouble in her face.