''Good boy, good boy. Keep it nice and quiet.'' She gazes at me. All right, Miss Lilly? Like a spot of tea, perhaps?'' I do not answer, but rock in my chair, very slowly. ''Or, coffee?'' She wets her lips. ''Make it coffee, then. Dainty, hot up some water.—Like a cake, dear girl, to chase it down with? Shall John slip out and fetch one? Don''t care for cakes?''
''There''s nothing,'' I say slowly, ''that could be served to me here, that wouldn''t be to me as ashes.''
She shakes her head. ''Why, what a mouth you''ve got, for poetry! As for the cake, now—?'' I look away.
Dainty sets about making the coffee. A gaudy clock ticks, and strikes the hour. Richard rolls a cigarette. Tobacco smoke, and smoke from the lamps and spitting candles, already drifts from wall
to wall. The walls are brown, and faintly gleam, as if painted with gravy; they are pinned, here and there, with coloured pictures—of cherubs, of roses, of girls on swings—and with curling paper clippings, engravings of sportsmen, horses, dogs and thieves. Beside Mr Ibbs''s brazier three portraits—of Mr Chubb, Mr Yale and Mr Bramah—have been pasted to a board of cork; and are much marked by dart-holes.
If I had a dart, I think, I might threaten them with it, make Mrs Sucksby give up her keys. If I had a broken bottle. If I had a knife.
Richard lights his cigarette, narrows his eyes against the smoke and looks me over. ''Pretty dress,'' he says. ''Just the colour for you.'' He reaches for one of the yellow ribbon trimmings, and I hit his hand away. ''Tut, tut,'' he says then. ''Temper not much improved, I fear. We were in hopes that you would sweeten up in confinement. As apples do. And veal-calves.''→思→兔→在→線→閱→讀→