“H’m!” said Mr. Marble, and another train of thought came to him on the instant, and he shuddered again.
Medland’s shyness was turning to boyish talkativeness. He looked round to the two children.
“Well,” he said, and smiled, “you two don’t seem to have much to say for yourselves.”
Winnie and John still remained silent. They had been keeping as quiet as mice so as not to draw attention to themselves and raise again the postponed question of bed. But beside this John was lost in admiration of this weather-tanned man who had come all the way from Australia, and who treated such an amazing trip through pirate-haunted seas with so little concern that he had said no word about it. And he spoke so casually about hotels too. John had noticed last year at Worthing that his father spoke of people who lived in hotels as opposed to those who live in rooms, and even in boardinghouses, with awe in his voice. And this man lived in a hotel and thought nothing of it!
As for Winnie, she was thinking that he was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. His warm brown face and his brown tweeds with their intoxicating scent were wonderful. Then when he looked straight at you and smiled, as he had just done, he was handsomer than anyone she could imagine, far handsomer than the fairy prince in the pantomime at Christmas.
“Speak up, children,” said their father. To Medland’s fastidious ear it sounded as if he might have added, “Tell the pretty gentleman his fortune.”
The children grinned shyly. Winnie could say nothing. But John made an effort, unused as he was to conversation owing to severe repression by his father during his queer moods of late.
“You have kangaroos in Australia, haven’t you?” he said, with a fourteen-year-old wriggle.
“You’re right,” said Medland. “I’ve hunted them too.”
“Ooh,” gasped John ecstatically. “On horseback?”
“Yes, for miles and miles across the country, as fast as your horse could gallop. I’ll tell you about it some day.”
Both children writhed in delight.
“And bushrangers?” said John. “Did—did you ever see Ned Kelly?”
To Medland’s credit he did not laugh.
“No such luck,” he said. “There weren’t many round where I lived. But I know a topping book about them.”
“Robbery Under Arms,” said both children at once.
“Oh, you’ve read it?”
“Read it? I should think they had.” This was Mr. Marble’s contribution to the conversation. “They’re terrors for reading, those two kids are. Never see ’em without a book.”
“That’s fine,” said Medland.
But the conversation wilted beyond recovery at this intrusion. And Marble, intent on getting Medland to himself, flashed a look at the children and jerked his head skywards. They understood, and climbed down dolefully from their chairs.
“Bedtime, children?” said Mr. Marble in a tone of surprise that was unsuccessful in its purpose of deceiving Medland, since he had caught the tail end of Marble’s signal. “Good night, then. Why, aren’t you going to kiss me?”
They had not been intending to do so. The custom had died out months before, when Marble had begun turning to the decanter in the sideboard for distraction from his troubles, and with children a custom three months unused might as well never have existed. Besides, John was nearly too old for kissing now. Both John and Winnie kissed their father awkwardly, and their mother casually. Then John shook hands with his new cousin. It was the first time he had ever shaken hands as man to man, with eye meeting eye in man’s fashion, and he was very proud of it. Winnie, too, tried to shake hands in imitation of her brother, but there was something in Medland’s smile and in the gentle traction he exerted on her hand that made her lean forward and kiss the boyish mouth tendered to her. It felt funny, different from other kisses she had known. It was a very silent pair that went up to bed.
Marble turned away with evident relief as they closed the door.
“Now we can be comfortable,” he said. “Draw your chair up closer to the fire, er—Jim. What a night,” he added, as the wind howled outside.
Medland nodded moodily. He was feeling awkward. He was not at all at home with these strange people. He didn’t like the way Marble behaved towards his children. The kids were all right of course, and the mother was a nonentity. But there was an atmosphere about the place that he hated. He pulled himself together and tried to shake off the brooding premonitory mood that was oppressing him. It was absurd, of course. Old Marble was only a very ordinary sort of chap. Seedy and down at heel, but quite all right. He was smiling oilily at present, but that didn’t mean anything necessarily. Hang it all, if he didn’t like the place he could clear out in a few minutes’ time and never come back to it. For the matter of that Medland’s thoughts swerved suddenly to the utterly absurd—he could change his hotel next morning and then they could never find him again. The bare idea was sufficient to bring his mind back to reality. There was no reason why he should think about things like that at all. The kids were fine, and he’d see a lot of them while he was in England. He could take them to a lot of the places he felt he had to go to, the Tower of London and St. Paul’s, for instance. That would be topping.
Mr. Marble was speaking to his wife.
“What about some supper, Annie?” he was saying. “I expect our young friend here is
