matter her deepest consideration, âhe hasnât looked after him very well, has he?â
Meg made an effort to think about Morrison and gave it up.
âSuppose Geoff
doesnât
ring.â
âEeh, heâll telephone, lass.â The door had been kicked open a little wider by a soft-soled shoe and Sam Drummock came cautiously into the room. He was carrying two large tulip glasses which he had overfilled, and he walked very steadily, like a three-year-old carrying a pitcher. He was a round man with a round bald head, and possessed the great strength which is inherent in the Midland breed. He had small shrewd eyes and a red face and was at the moment clad in his working garment. This was a sort of high-collared pyjama jacket in heavy shantung, most beautifully laundered and worn over tidy little grey flannel trousers. His small round feet were set in neat and shiny red slippers, and his entire appearance managed to suggest the highly conventional costume of some unknown land.
âGin sling,â he explained, handing each of them a glass. âI mixed it myself so I know itâs all right. Itâs a pick-me-up. You need it. Wait till I get my can. Itâs on the stairs.â
He moved very quickly and lightly like the boxers he admired so much, and was soon back again, a shining pewter tankard in his hand.
âWell, I listened,â he announced cheerfully. âItâs a killing, eh? Well, thatâs bad. Still, cheer up. Thank God itâs not uz.â A little chuckling laugh escaped him, and he roamed over to a bureau on whose lid a design for a wonderful wedding dress was displayed. âIâm going to see the old Queen in this,â he said to Amanda with enormous satisfaction. âIâm going to sit in the front pew and hold my little top hat on my knee. If the old Bishop (and he hasnât been looking too good lately, mind you) only foozles it, and Hubert has to do the marrying, Iâm going to give her away.â
He peered at the drawing again and made an explosive noise.
âI donât like the bit underneath. That spoils it for me, that does. â
Darling, if I could only wear this myself Iâd be in heaven
.â Signed Nicky. Iâd Nicky the little so-and-so.â
Meg smiled in spite of her preoccupation. âNicolas de Richeberg is the most brilliant dress designer in the world, Uncle Sam.â
âSo he ought to be.â Sam raised his tankard. âOnly the best is good enough for uz. But sheâd look lovely in calico, my old Queen would. Meg â â
âYes?â
âItâs on my conscience so Iâll have to tell you. That girl in Geoffâs office rang again. Heâs forgotten a personal call that was booked to him by his Paris foreman or broker or whatever they call them. She wants him to phone the moment he comes here.â Sam was worried. The anxiety peeped out of his kind little eyes and was gone again. âBut it doesnât signify.â A hopeful idea occurred to him. âMaybe heâs gone and had a drink or two, eh?â
âThat wouldnât be like him.â
âNo.â He put his head into his mug and reappeared, refreshed. âMind you,â he said, âif it was Martin that was on the tiles I wouldnât give it another thought. Iâd
know
.â
Amanda hesitated. âI never knew Martin, of course. Was he a wild person?â
âMartin?â Sam put his head back and crowed aloud. âOh, a dasher. A lively, dashing, smashing sort of a lad. But we donât want to talk about him, poor fellow, do we?â There were sudden tears in the twinkling eyes. âOh lord, no. Thatâs done. Thatâs over. My old Queenâs going to be happy with a grand chap. Sheâs going to have a good steady sensible manly sort of a husband.â He fixed the visitor with a solemn stare. âA grand chap,â he declared. âOne of the best. And
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