"Yes--interesting. A man." He glowered at Ronald Morelle.
"Interesting," he repeated, and went away with that. Her fascinated
gaze followed him as he strode toward the car. "Paddington--get me
there, damn you," she heard him say, and when the car had gone--
"Dynamic," she said with a sigh. "He is like a power house. When I
shake hands with him, I feel as though I'm going to get a bad burn!
You were very silent, Ronnie?"
"Yes--" absently. "Old Steppe is rather a shocker, isn't he? How
did he know you had seen Sault?"
"Father told him, I suppose. Ronnie, are you afraid of Mr. Steppe?"
He colored. "Afraid? How stupid you are, Beryl! Why should I be
afraid of him? He's--well, I do business with him. I am a director
of a company or two, he put me into them. One has to--how shall I
put it? One has to be polite to these people. I'll go along now.
Beryl--lot of work to do."
He was uncomfortable, and she did not pursue the subject. The
knowledge brought a little ache to her heart--that Ronnie was afraid
of Jan Steppe! She would have given her soul to respect Ronald
Morelle as she respected the swarthy gray-haired man whom even Steppe
respected.
IV
"Children," said Mrs. Colebrook peering into the saucepan that
bubbled and splashed and steamed on the kitchen fire, "are a great
responsibility--especially in this neighborhood where, as you might
say, there is nothing but raffle."
Sometime in her youth, it is probable that Mrs. Colebrook had to
choose between "rabble" and "riff-raff" and had found a compromise.
"That man Starker who lives up the street, Number 39, I think it
is--no maybe it's 37--it is the house before the sweep's. Well, I
did think he was all right, geraniums in his window too, and
canaries. A very homely man, wouldn't say boo to a goose. He got
nine months this morning."
Ambrose Sault, sitting in a wooden chair which was wedged tightly
between the kitchen table and the dresser, drummed his fingers
absently upon the polished cloth table-cover and nodded. His dark
sallow face wore an expression of strained interest.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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