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 parafin 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
