"I see what you mean! But I don't agree," Pell pursued. "This Jones person
is nothing in my life. And why I should be deprived of my liquor and forced
to eat burnt beans three times a day, I can't see." He emitted a sound that
might have been designated a laugh.
"But--while we--" Lucia started to argue, and then thought better of it.
"Why doesn't he set his liquor out and see that the meals are right,
himself? Then there wouldn't be any need of my saying anything." His tone
was brutally frank. He really disliked Jones, and would be glad when they
could get back to New York. There was nothing here worth his consideration.
Sturgis had been stupid to think so.
"But when we are enjoying his hospitality--"
"Enjoying? Ha! Suffering, I guess you mean!" And Pell's head went back and
he gave out a guffaw.
Lucia waited for his false mirth to vanish. Then, "But you seemed very
anxious to come here."
"Yes; because I thought he lived in a house, not a--"
The sentence was not completed; for Gilbert came back with a bottle of the
deadly tequila in his hand.
"I'm terribly sorry," he apologized, "to have to tell you that dinner will
be late."
"You mean later, don't you?" Pell edited the remark.
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