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The only other occupant of the room, a short, wiry man, with a close-shaven, hard-bitten face, sat smoking, with a glass of whisky before him, in a bay window at the end of the room, which looked out on the harbour. There was a maritime flavour about him which at once enlisted Mr. Chalk's sympathies and made him overlook the small, steely-grey eyes and large and somewhat brutal mouth.
Still a little nervous, he watched his wife to the end of the garden and saw her crane her head over the fence. By the time she returned he was sitting in an attitude of careless ease, with his back to the window. "Well?" he said, with assurance. Mrs. Chalk stood stock-still, and the intensity of her gaze drew Mr. Chalk's eyes to her face despite his will.
The Doctor ought to be ashamed of himself, taking a nigger like that! Why didn't he come dressed like a native, instead of disguised as an English lad? And he's no more like it than chalk's like cheese. Yes, I say the Doctor ought to be ashamed of himself, bringing a fellow like that into an establishment for the sons of gentlemen; and I'll tell him so before I have done."
"My thoughts were far away," he said, at last. His wife bridled and said, "Oh, indeed!" Mr. Chalk's mother, dead some ten years before, had taken a strange pride possibly as a protest against her only son's appearance in hinting darkly at a stormy and chequered past.
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