There followed an embarrassing pause. He could feel the keen grey eyes upon him and looked away, his gaze fixed on a goblet of Bohemian glass with "Grüss!" inscribed in gilt upon it.
Over Miss Uniacke's wrinkled face a grim smile began to steal.
"Hm ... I see. You want to indulge in philanthropy--at the expense of my conscience?"
McTaggart, glancing up, caught a twinkle in her eyes.
"Exactly--we can both afford it!--I knew, somehow, you'd be kind."
"Did you?" She chuckled, inwardly pleased. "You seem to take a lot for granted. May I ask the reason why?"
"Well--if you want to know..." he smiled. "No--I'd better not." He checked himself mischievously, studying her face.
"Jill, I suppose, or, perhaps, Roddy?--I sent that young rascal a hamper lately--I expect he's been deceiving you! I only do it because, as it happens, Mrs. Belsey likes cooking. And I don't eat cakes myself--so it pleases her--and I hate waste!"
"No. Roddy's been most discreet!" He paused, then risked it, laughing.
"I guessed it from your beautiful hands! There's such a lot of character to be learnt from hands----" he went on calmly, enjoying her indignant surprise. "I always judge people by them, and I'm never very far wrong!"
The smile she could no longer repress robbed the words of their sting--"Now before I answer your ... rigmarole--I want to think."
McTaggart nodded. He was well pleased with his mission and he felt a personal interest in this singular new acquaintance, with her sharp tongue and kind eyes.
Absently, from a black silk bag, Miss Uniacke drew a bundle of wool and began to knit rapidly, thinking aloud, between the stitches.
"Three, four, five, purl--the woman's an utter fool--always told Edward so!--seven, eight, drop one. But there's the girl to consider--twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen--dirty house, no management--nineteen, twenty, knit one, turn..."
Then from behind the sofa came the startling sound of a noisy kiss.
"Pret-ty Polly--give-us-a-kiss!" followed by a grave "A-men." The grey parrot, upside down, clinging to his narrow perch, let out a mocking laugh. Miss Uniacke knitted on.
"Seven, eight--strong soup--nine, purl--some good old port--ridiculous! a child of that age--ten, eleven, wants air--drop one--and nine hours sleep. Pity they let her out of prison--fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, turn--If I had my way I'd shave their heads. Soon cure this Suffrage nonsense--Three, four----"