The man took his pipe from his mouth deliberately, with a look of slow
wonder.
"Why, Kathie, you seem quite anxious. I didn't know you'd be so
interested, my dear. Well,"--another long pull at his pipe,--"his name's
Brook--_Brookfield_, I think." He paused again. "This pipe doesn't draw
well a bit; there's something wrong with it, I shouldn't wonder," he
added, taking it out and examining the bowl as though struck with the
brilliance of the idea.
The woman opposite put down her work and clinched her hands under the
table.
"Go on, John," she said, presently, in a tense, vibrating voice; "his
name is Brookfield. Well, where does he come from?"
"Straight from home, my dear, I believe." He fumbled in his pocket, and
after some time extricated a pencil, with which he began to poke
the tobacco in the bowl in an ineffectual aimless fashion, becoming
completely engrossed in the occupation apparently. There was another
long pause. The woman went on working, or feigning to work, for her
hands were trembling a good deal.
After some moments she raised her head again. "John, will you mind
attending to me one moment, and answering these questions as quickly as
you can?" The emphasis on the last word was so faint as to be almost as
imperceptible as the touch of exasperated contempt which she could not
absolutely banish from her tone.
Pages:
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173