"I'm delighted to hear it."
"You'll find the cook's not bad.
I kept on Watson's boys for you."
"Watson was the missionary who was here?"
"Yes.
Very nice fellow.
I'll show you his grave tomorrow if you like."
"How kind you are," said Kitty with a smile.
At that moment Walter came in.
Waddington had introduced himself to him before coming in to see Kitty and now he said:
"I've just been breaking it to your missus that I'm dining with you.
Since Watson died I haven't had anybody much to talk to but the nuns, and I can never do myself justice in French. Besides, there is only a limited number of subjects you can talk to them about."
"I've just told the boy to bring in some drinks," said Walter.
The servant brought whisky and soda and Kitty noticed that Waddington helped himself generously.
His manner of speaking and his easy chuckle had suggested to her when he came in that he was not quite sober.
"Here's luck," he said. Then, turning to Walter: "You've got your work cut out for you here.
They're dying like flies.
The magistrate's lost his head and Colonel Ju, the officer commanding the troops, is having a devil of a job to prevent them from looting.
If something doesn't happen soon we shall all be murdered in our beds.
I tried to get the nuns to go, but of course they wouldn't.
They all want to be martyrs, damn them."
He spoke lightly and there was in his voice a sort of ghostly laughter so that you could not listen to him without smiling.
"Why haven't you gone?" asked Walter.
"Well, I've lost half my staff and the others are ready to lie down and die at any minute.
Somebody's got to stay and keep things together."
"Have you been inoculated?"
"Yes.
Watson did me.
But he did himself too, and it didn't do him much good, poor blighter." He turned to Kitty and his funny little face was gaily puckered. "I don't think there's any great risk if you take proper precautions.
Have your milk and water boiled and don't eat fresh fruit or uncooked vegetables.
Have you brought any gramophone records with you?"
"No, I don't think so," said Kitty.
"I'm sorry for that.
I was hoping you would.
I haven't had any for a long time and I'm sick of my old ones."
The boy came in to ask if they would have dinner.
"You won't dress to-night, will you?" asked Waddington. "My boy died last week and the boy I have now is a fool, so I haven't been dressing in the evening."
"I'll go and take off my hat," said Kitty.
Her room was next door to that in which they sat. It was barely furnished.
An amah was kneeling on the floor, the lamp beside her, unpacking Kitty's things.
XXXII
THE dining-room was small and the greater part of it was filled by an immense table.
On the walls were engravings of scenes from the Bible and illuminated texts.
"Missionaries always have large dining-tables," Waddington explained. "They get so much a year more for every child they have and they buy their tables when they marry so that there shall be plenty of room for little strangers."
From the ceiling hung a large paraffin lamp, so that Kitty was able to see better what sort of a man Waddington was.
His baldness had deceived her into thinking him no longer young, but she saw now that he must be well under forty.
His face, small under a high, rounded forehead, was unlined and fresh-coloured; it was ugly like a monkey's, but with an ugliness that was not without charm; it was an amusing face.
His features, his nose and his mouth, were hardly larger than a child's, and he had small, very bright blue eyes. His eyebrows were fair and scanty.
He looked like a funny little old boy.
He helped himself constantly to liquor and as dinner proceeded it became evident that he was far from sober.