Howat wished he would stop his clattering movement. An expression of
ill-nature deepened in Mariana; she looked her ugliest; and James Polder
was perceptibly fogged from a lack of sleep. Finally he said:
"Look here, we can't go on like this." He stopped in front of Mariana,
with a quivering face. She raised her eyebrows. "Come outside," he
begged. "What's the use?" she replied; but, at the same time, she rose.
"Don't get desperate, Howat," she said over her shoulder. "Even I can't
do any more; I can only take my shamelessness back to Andalusia." Polder
held open the screen door; and as, without her jacket, she went out,
Howat Penny had a final glimpse of the man bending at her side. Like two
fish in a net, he thought ungraciously. He was worn out by their
infernal flopping. With a determined movement of his shoulders, a fixing
of his glass, he turned to the accumulation of his papers.
Later he heard the changing gears of a motor. He thought for a moment
that it was Honduras at his own car; then he recognized the stroke of a
far heavier engine. The powerful, ungraceful bulk of an English machine
was stopping at his door. Immediately after he distinguished the
slightly harsh, dominating voice of Peter Provost. The latter entered,
followed by Kingsfrere Jannan.
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