Part 27 (2/2)
”How did you know I was thinking of anything?”
”Your face. It tells tales.”
”Only nice ones to you, my dear lady.”
”Ah, but you _didn't_ tell--”
”Would you like me to?”
”Not if it's naughty. Your face looks naughty.”
He wheeled, delighted. ”Now, how does my face look when it's naughty?”
”Oh, that _would_ be telling. It's just as well you shouldn't know.”
”Was it as naughty as all that then?”
”Yes. Or as nice.”
They kept it up, lightly, till Partridge and Annie Trinder came, tinkling and rattling with the tea-things outside the door. As if, Mr.
Waddington thought, they meant to warn them.
”Partridge,” he called, as the butler was going, ”Partridge, if Sir John Corbett calls you can show him in here; but I'm not at home to anybody else.”
(Clever idea, that.)
”He isn't coming, is he, the tiresome old thing?”
”No. He isn't. If I thought he was for one minute I wouldn't be at home.”
”Then why--?”
”Why did I say I would be? Because I wanted to make it safe for you, Elise.”
Thus tactfully he let it dawn on her that he might be dangerous.
”We don't want to be interrupted, do we?” he said.
”Not by Sir John Corbett.”
He drew up the big, padded sofa square before the fire for Elise. All his movements were unconscious, innocent of deliberation and design. He seated himself top-heavily behind the diminutive gate-legged tea-table; the teapot and cups were like dolls' things in his great hands. She looked at him, at his slow fingers fumbling with the sugar tongs.
”Would you like me to pour out tea for you?” she said.
He started visibly. He wouldn't like it at all. He wasn't going to allow Elise to put herself into f.a.n.n.y's place, pouring out tea for him as if she was his wife. She wouldn't have suggested it if she had had any tact or any delicacy.
”No,” he said. The ”No” sounded hard and ungracious. ”You must really let me have the pleasure of waiting on you.”
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