smoothly.  It was all very swift; I saw her pick up the tail of her wrapper and run for the door at the end of the verandah not very gracefully.  She appeared to be limping a little—­and then she vanished; the door swung behind her so noiselessly that I could not believe it was completely closed.  I had a distinct suspicion of her black eye being at the crack to watch what I would do.  I could not make up my mind whether to shake my fist in that direction or blow a kiss.

CHAPTER VI

Either would have been perfectly consistent with my feelings.  I gazed at the door, hesitating, but in the end I did neither.  The monition of some sixth sense—­the sense of guilt, maybe, that sense which always acts too late, alas!—­warned me to look round; and at once I became aware that the conclusion of this tumultuous episode was likely to be a matter of lively anxiety.  Jacobus was standing in the doorway of the dining-room.  How long he had been there it was impossible to guess; and remembering my struggle with the girl I thought he must have been its mute witness from beginning to end.  But this supposition seemed almost incredible.  Perhaps that impenetrable girl had heard him come in and had got away in time.

He stepped on to the verandah in his usual manner, heavy-eyed, with glued lips.  I marvelled at the girl’s resemblance to this man.  Those long, Egyptian eyes, that low forehead of a stupid goddess, she had found in the sawdust of the circus; but all the rest of the face, the design and the modelling, the rounded chin, the very lips—­all that was Jacobus, fined down, more finished, more expressive.

His thick hand fell on and grasped with force the back of a light chair (there were several standing about) and I perceived the chance of a broken head at the end of all this—­most likely.  My mortification was extreme.  The scandal would be horrible; that was unavoidable.  But how to act so as to satisfy myself I did not know.  I stood on my guard and at any rate faced him.  There was nothing else for it.  Of one thing I was certain, that, however brazen my attitude, it could never equal the characteristic Jacobus impudence.

He gave me his melancholy, glued smile and sat down.  I own I was relieved.  The perspective of passing from kisses to blows had nothing particularly attractive in it.  Perhaps—­perhaps he had seen nothing?  He behaved as usual, but he had never before found me alone on the verandah.  If he had alluded to it, if he had asked:  “Where’s Alice?” or something of the sort, I would have been able to judge from the tone.  He would give me no opportunity.  The striking peculiarity was that he had never looked up at me yet.  “He knows,” I said to myself confidently.  And my contempt for him relieved my disgust with myself.

“You are early home,” I remarked.

“Things are very quiet; nothing doing at the store to-day,” he explained with a cast-down air.