VI

BETWEEN THE LIGHTS

There was but the one hotel in that somber town of East Africa, and Miss Gregory, fronting the proprietor of it squarely, noted that he looked at her with something like amusement.  She was a short woman of fifty, grey-haired and composed, and her pleasant face had a quiet and almost masculine strength and assurance.  In her grey flannel jacket and short skirt and felt hat, with a sun-umbrella carried like a walking-stick, she looked adequate and worthy.  Hers was a presence that earned respect and deference in the highways of travel; she had the air of a veteran voyager.

“I have managed to lose the boat,” she said evenly; “and my luggage, of course, has been carried on to Zanzibar.”

The hotel proprietor had not risen from his chair.  He shrugged and smiled as he looked up at her.

“Vat you vant?” he asked.

Miss Gregory frowned.  “I want a room for the night,” she answered.  “A room and dinner, please.”

The man smiled again and bit his nails.  He was a lean creature, unshaven and sidelong, and he had the furtive and self-conscious air of one who perpetrates a practical joke.  Miss Gregory watched him with some impatience; she had yet to learn that a Portugee of the Coast will even lose money to inconvenience an English man or woman.

“You got money?” he asked.

Miss Gregory squared her shoulders.  “I shall pay in the morning,” she said.  “You need have no fear; the Consul will be back to-morrow; I inquired at the Consulate.”  She paused; he wore still his narrow grin of malice.  “Man!” she said contemptuously; “do you keep an hotel and not know a lady when you see one?”

“No money?” he suggested insinuatingly.

Miss Gregory sank a hand in her big pocket and brought forth her purse.  There was a slight flush on her healthy broad face, but she governed her voice admirably.

“Here are three English shillings,” she said, tilting them into her hand.  “You can take these as a—­as a deposit; and the rest will be paid in the morning.  Now show me to my room.”

The landlord uncoiled himself and rose from his chair to look at the money.  He peered at it in her hand, then straightened up and faced her.  Suddenly he had become hostile, lividly vicious; he laughed a shrill cackle in her face, his nose wrinkled like a dog’s.

“No good to me,” he said.  “T’ree shillin’—­poof!  For free shillin’ here you buy-a free drink.  For room—­an’ dinner—­you pay-a one pound.  Take-a your t’ree shillin’ away; I don’t vant-a you an’ your free shillin’.  You get out—­go walk-a in da street.”

His eyes traveled swiftly about the place, as though to make sure that no one overheard; then he spat a foul epithet at her.  His lean, unbuttoned body writhed as he babbled; his hands whirled in gestures; he seemed to be seeking courage to be violent.  Miss Gregory, with a little frown of consideration, watched him.  She buttoned the flannel jacket across her breast and restored her three shillings to her pocket.  It was all done very deliberately, and through it all her formidable gaze held the Portugee at arm’s length, till his gabbled insults died out and left him armed only with scowls.  Miss Gregory waited, but he had no more to say.