and the complete failure of his attempt to get Mr Llewellyn to cooperate with him in the spelling of the word 'inexplicable ’ had caused him to abandon his letter for the time being. When Gertrude came in, he was staring before him, chewing the pen.
Gertrude did not see him. The library of the Atlantic is tastefully decorated with potted palms, and one of these interrupted her line of vision. She went to the shelves, found them locked, discovered that the attendant was not at his post, and crossed to the round table in the middle of the room and took up a magazine.
This enabled Monty to catch sight of her, with the result that scarcely had she settled herself in a chair by the window and begun to read when there was a sound of emotional breathing above her head, and, looking up, she beheld a pale, set face. The shock made her hiccough. Her magazine fell to the floor. This was the first intimation she had received that he was not still in London. She had never for a moment supposed that his presence at Waterloo had meant that he was catching the boat train.
'Ha!' said Monty.
Two things prevented Gertrude Butterwick from rising to her feet and sweeping out of the room. One was that the chair in which she sat was so deep that to extricate herself from it she would have had to employ a sort of Swedish exercise quite out of keeping with the solemnity of the moment. The other was that Monty, having said 'Ha!', had begun to gaze at her sternly and accusingly, like King Arthur at Queen Guinevere, and the colossal crust of this held her spellbound. That this man should behave as he had done with one hand and come gazing sternly and accusingly at her with the other made her proud spirit boil.
'At last!' said Monty.
'Go away!' said Gertrude.
'Not,' said Monty, with quiet dignity, 'till I have spoken.'
'I don't want to talk to you.'
Monty laughed like a squeaking slate pencil.
‘ Don't you worry. I'll do all the bally talking that's required, ’ he said - the very words, in all probability, with which King Arthur had opened his interview with Guinevere. Much brooding on his wrongs, taken in conjunction with the fact that his feet were still hurting him, had turned Monty Bodkin into something very different from the apologetic bleater who had stood on one leg in this girl's presence at Waterloo. He was cold and pop-eyed and ruthless.
'Gertrude,' he said, 'your behaviour is inexplicable.'
Gertrude gasped. Her eyes flashed amazement and indignation. All the woman in her rose to combat the monstrous charge.
'It isn't! ’
'It is.'
‘ It is not.'
'It is. Quite inexplicable. L et me recapitulate the facts.' ‘ It's nothing -'
‘ Let me,' said Monty, waving a hand, 'recapitulate the facts’ 'It's nothing of the - ’
'Lord love a duck! ’ cried Monty, with sharp rebuke. 'Will you or will you not let me recapitulate the facts? How the devil am I to recapitulate the facts if you keep interrupting all the time?'
The stoutest-hearted girl is apt to quail when she finds herself confronted by the authentic cave-man. Gertrude Butter-wick did so now. Never, in all the months of their association, had Montague Bodkin spoken to her like that. She had not known that he could speak to her like that. And his words - and more than the words, the tone in which they were uttered -struck her as dumb as any Ivor Llewellyn asked to spell 'sciatica'. She felt as if she had been bitten in the leg by a rabbit.
Monty was shooting his cuffs masterfully. In his eyes there was no lovelight to soften resentment Only that stern, accusing gleam.
The facts,' he said, 'are these. We met. We clicked. I squashed a wasp for you at that picnic, and two weeks later you stated in set terms that you loved me. So far, so good. On that basis of understanding I buckled to and prepared to fulfil the loony conditions laid down by your chump of a father as a preliminary to our union. It was a tough assignment, but I faced it without a tremor. That chap in the
Gertrude did not see him. The library of the Atlantic is tastefully decorated with potted palms, and one of these interrupted her line of vision. She went to the shelves, found them locked, discovered that the attendant was not at his post, and crossed to the round table in the middle of the room and took up a magazine.
This enabled Monty to catch sight of her, with the result that scarcely had she settled herself in a chair by the window and begun to read when there was a sound of emotional breathing above her head, and, looking up, she beheld a pale, set face. The shock made her hiccough. Her magazine fell to the floor. This was the first intimation she had received that he was not still in London. She had never for a moment supposed that his presence at Waterloo had meant that he was catching the boat train.
'Ha!' said Monty.
Two things prevented Gertrude Butterwick from rising to her feet and sweeping out of the room. One was that the chair in which she sat was so deep that to extricate herself from it she would have had to employ a sort of Swedish exercise quite out of keeping with the solemnity of the moment. The other was that Monty, having said 'Ha!', had begun to gaze at her sternly and accusingly, like King Arthur at Queen Guinevere, and the colossal crust of this held her spellbound. That this man should behave as he had done with one hand and come gazing sternly and accusingly at her with the other made her proud spirit boil.
'At last!' said Monty.
'Go away!' said Gertrude.
'Not,' said Monty, with quiet dignity, 'till I have spoken.'
'I don't want to talk to you.'
Monty laughed like a squeaking slate pencil.
‘ Don't you worry. I'll do all the bally talking that's required, ’ he said - the very words, in all probability, with which King Arthur had opened his interview with Guinevere. Much brooding on his wrongs, taken in conjunction with the fact that his feet were still hurting him, had turned Monty Bodkin into something very different from the apologetic bleater who had stood on one leg in this girl's presence at Waterloo. He was cold and pop-eyed and ruthless.
'Gertrude,' he said, 'your behaviour is inexplicable.'
Gertrude gasped. Her eyes flashed amazement and indignation. All the woman in her rose to combat the monstrous charge.
'It isn't! ’
'It is.'
‘ It is not.'
'It is. Quite inexplicable. L et me recapitulate the facts.' ‘ It's nothing -'
‘ Let me,' said Monty, waving a hand, 'recapitulate the facts’ 'It's nothing of the - ’
'Lord love a duck! ’ cried Monty, with sharp rebuke. 'Will you or will you not let me recapitulate the facts? How the devil am I to recapitulate the facts if you keep interrupting all the time?'
The stoutest-hearted girl is apt to quail when she finds herself confronted by the authentic cave-man. Gertrude Butter-wick did so now. Never, in all the months of their association, had Montague Bodkin spoken to her like that. She had not known that he could speak to her like that. And his words - and more than the words, the tone in which they were uttered -struck her as dumb as any Ivor Llewellyn asked to spell 'sciatica'. She felt as if she had been bitten in the leg by a rabbit.
Monty was shooting his cuffs masterfully. In his eyes there was no lovelight to soften resentment Only that stern, accusing gleam.
The facts,' he said, 'are these. We met. We clicked. I squashed a wasp for you at that picnic, and two weeks later you stated in set terms that you loved me. So far, so good. On that basis of understanding I buckled to and prepared to fulfil the loony conditions laid down by your chump of a father as a preliminary to our union. It was a tough assignment, but I faced it without a tremor. That chap in the
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