The Divine Fire
May Sinclair
CHAPTER XI
A step was heard on the pavement outside; then the click of a latch-key; a step on the stairs, at the threshold, and Mr. Pilkington walked in with the air of being the master of the house and everything in it.
He became suddenly grave, steady and coherent.
"I was just going, Miss Grace. But--if you want me to stay a little longer, I'll stay."
"You'd better _go_," said Miss Grace.
Her eyes followed him sullenly as he went; so did Pilkington's.
"Well," she said, "I suppose that's what you wanted?"
"Yes, but there's no good overdoing the thing, you know. This," said Pilkington, "is a damned sight too expensive game for him to play."
"He's all right. It wasn't his fault. I let him drink too much champagne."
"What did you do that for? Couldn't you see he'd had enough already?"
"How was I to know? He's nicer when he's drunk than other people are when they're sober."
He looked at her critically. "I know all about him. What I'd like to know is what you see in him."
Poppy returned his look with interest. Coarseness in Dicky Pilkington's eyes sat brilliant and unashamed.
"Would you? So would I. P'raps it's wot I don't see in him."
Now subtlety was the last thing Dicky expected from Poppy, and it aroused suspicion.
"I only did what you told me. If you don't like it, you can finish the job yourself. I'm tired," said Poppy, wearily coiling up her hair.
She was no longer in spirits.