smiling.
‘Why haven’t you gone?’ asked Walter.
‘Well, I’ve lost half my staff and the others are ready to lie down and die at any minute. Somebody’s got to stay and keep things together.’
‘Have you been inoculated?’
‘Yes. Watson did me. But he did himself too, and it didn’t do him much good, poor blighter.’ He turned to Kitty and his funny little face was gaily puckered. ‘I don’t think there’s any great risk if you take proper precautions. Have your milk and water boiled and don’t eat fresh fruit or uncooked vegetables. Have you brought any gramophone records with you?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Kitty.
‘I’m sorry for that. I was hoping you would. I haven’t had any for a long time and I’m sick of my old ones.’
The boy came in to ask if they would have dinner.
‘You won’t dress to-night, will you?’ asked Waddington. ‘My boy died last week and the boy I have now is a fool, so I haven’t been dressing in the evening.’
‘I’ll go and take off my hat,’ said Kitty.
Her room was next door to that in which they sat. It was barely furnished. An amah was kneeling on the floor, the lamp beside her, unpacking Kitty’s things.
32
The dining-room was small and the greater part of it was filled by an immense table. On the walls were engravings of scenes from the Bible and illuminated texts.
‘Missionaries always have large dining-tables,’ Waddington explained. ‘They get so much a year more for every child they have and they buy their tables when they marry so that there shall be plenty of room for little strangers.’
From the ceiling hung a large paraffin lamp, so that Kitty was able to see better what sort of a man Waddington was. His baldness had deceived her into thinking him no longer young, but she saw now that he must be well under forty. His face, small under a high, rounded forehead, was unlined and fresh-coloured; it was ugly like a monkey’s, but with an ugliness that was not without charm; it was an amusing face. His features, his nose and his mouth, were hardly larger than a child’s, and he had small, very bright blue eyes. His eyebrows were fair and scanty. He looked like a funny little old boy. He helped himself constantly to liquor and as dinner proceeded it became evident that he was far from sober. But if he was drunk it was without offensiveness, gaily, as a satyr might be who had stolen a wine-skin from a sleeping shepherd.
He talked of Hong-Kong; he had many friends there and he wanted to know about them. He had been down for the races a year before and he talked of ponies and their owners.
‘By the way, what about Townsend?’ he asked suddenly. ‘Is he going to become Colonial Secretary?’
Kitty felt herself flush, but her husband did not look at her.
‘I shouldn’t wonder,’ he answered.
‘He’s the sort that gets on.’
‘Do you know him?’ asked Walter.
‘Yes, I know him pretty well. We travelled out from home together once.’
From the other side of the river they heard the beating of gongs and the clatter of fire-crackers. There, so short a way from them, the great city lay in terror; and death, sudden and ruthless, hurried through its tortuous streets. But Waddington began to speak of London. He talked of the theatres. He knew everything that was being played at the moment and he told them what pieces he had seen when he was last home on leave. He laughed as he recollected the humour of this low comedian and sighed as he reflected on the beauty of that star of musical comedy. He was pleased to be able to boast that a cousin of his had married one of the most celebrated. He had lunched with her and she had given him her photograph. He would show it to them when they came and dined with him at the Customs.
Walter looked at his guest with a cold and ironic gaze, but he was evidently not a little amused by him, and he made an effort to show a civil interest in topics of which Kitty was well aware he knew
‘Why haven’t you gone?’ asked Walter.
‘Well, I’ve lost half my staff and the others are ready to lie down and die at any minute. Somebody’s got to stay and keep things together.’
‘Have you been inoculated?’
‘Yes. Watson did me. But he did himself too, and it didn’t do him much good, poor blighter.’ He turned to Kitty and his funny little face was gaily puckered. ‘I don’t think there’s any great risk if you take proper precautions. Have your milk and water boiled and don’t eat fresh fruit or uncooked vegetables. Have you brought any gramophone records with you?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Kitty.
‘I’m sorry for that. I was hoping you would. I haven’t had any for a long time and I’m sick of my old ones.’
The boy came in to ask if they would have dinner.
‘You won’t dress to-night, will you?’ asked Waddington. ‘My boy died last week and the boy I have now is a fool, so I haven’t been dressing in the evening.’
‘I’ll go and take off my hat,’ said Kitty.
Her room was next door to that in which they sat. It was barely furnished. An amah was kneeling on the floor, the lamp beside her, unpacking Kitty’s things.
32
The dining-room was small and the greater part of it was filled by an immense table. On the walls were engravings of scenes from the Bible and illuminated texts.
‘Missionaries always have large dining-tables,’ Waddington explained. ‘They get so much a year more for every child they have and they buy their tables when they marry so that there shall be plenty of room for little strangers.’
From the ceiling hung a large paraffin lamp, so that Kitty was able to see better what sort of a man Waddington was. His baldness had deceived her into thinking him no longer young, but she saw now that he must be well under forty. His face, small under a high, rounded forehead, was unlined and fresh-coloured; it was ugly like a monkey’s, but with an ugliness that was not without charm; it was an amusing face. His features, his nose and his mouth, were hardly larger than a child’s, and he had small, very bright blue eyes. His eyebrows were fair and scanty. He looked like a funny little old boy. He helped himself constantly to liquor and as dinner proceeded it became evident that he was far from sober. But if he was drunk it was without offensiveness, gaily, as a satyr might be who had stolen a wine-skin from a sleeping shepherd.
He talked of Hong-Kong; he had many friends there and he wanted to know about them. He had been down for the races a year before and he talked of ponies and their owners.
‘By the way, what about Townsend?’ he asked suddenly. ‘Is he going to become Colonial Secretary?’
Kitty felt herself flush, but her husband did not look at her.
‘I shouldn’t wonder,’ he answered.
‘He’s the sort that gets on.’
‘Do you know him?’ asked Walter.
‘Yes, I know him pretty well. We travelled out from home together once.’
From the other side of the river they heard the beating of gongs and the clatter of fire-crackers. There, so short a way from them, the great city lay in terror; and death, sudden and ruthless, hurried through its tortuous streets. But Waddington began to speak of London. He talked of the theatres. He knew everything that was being played at the moment and he told them what pieces he had seen when he was last home on leave. He laughed as he recollected the humour of this low comedian and sighed as he reflected on the beauty of that star of musical comedy. He was pleased to be able to boast that a cousin of his had married one of the most celebrated. He had lunched with her and she had given him her photograph. He would show it to them when they came and dined with him at the Customs.
Walter looked at his guest with a cold and ironic gaze, but he was evidently not a little amused by him, and he made an effort to show a civil interest in topics of which Kitty was well aware he knew
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