that so, Flossie?”
The young lady with yellow hair confirmed the statement with much dignity.
“I had a toothache,” she said, “and Mrs. Da Souza, or whatever the old cat calls herself, was most rude. I reckon myself as respectable as she is any day, dragging that yellow-faced daughter of hers about with her and throwing her at men's heads.”
Miss Montressor, who had stopped to pick a flower, rejoined them.
“I say, General,” she remarked, “fair's fair, and a promise is a promise. We didn't come down here to be made fools of by a fat old Jewess. You won't send us away because of the old wretch?”
“I promise,” said Trent, “that when she goes you go, and not before. Is that sufficient?”
“Right oh!” the young lady declared cheerfully. “Now you go and prink up for dinner. We're ready, Flossie and I. The little Jew girl's got a new dress—black covered with sequins. It makes her look yellower than ever. There goes the bell, and we're both as hungry as hunters. Look sharp!”
Trent entered the house. Da Souza met him in the hall, sleek, curly, and resplendent in a black dinner-suit. The years had dealt lightly with him, or else the climate of England was kinder to his yellow skin than the moist heat of the Gold Coast. He greeted Trent with a heartiness which was partly tentative, partly boisterous.
“Back from the coining of the shekels, my dear friend,” he exclaimed. “Back from the spoiling of the Egyptians, eh? How was money to-day?”
“An eighth easier,” Trent answered, ascending the stairs.
Da Souza fidgeted about with the banisters, and finally followed him.
“There was just a word,” he remarked, “a little word I wanted with you.”
“Come and talk while I wash,” Trent said shortly. “Dinner's on, and I'm hungry.”
“Certainly, certainly,” Da Souza murmured, closing the door behind them as they entered the lavatory. “It is concerning these young ladies.”
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