Joe Pillin's
face, never highly coloured, turned a sort of grey; he opened his thin
lips, shut them quickly, as birds do, and something seemed to pass with
difficulty down his scraggy throat. The hollows, which nerve exhaustion
delves in the cheeks of men whose cheekbones are not high, increased
alarmingly. For a moment he looked deathly; then, moistening his lips,
he said:
"Larne--Larne? No, I don't seem---"
Mr. Ventnor, who had taken care to be drawing on his gloves, murmured:
"Oh! I thought--your son knows her; a relation of old Heythorp's," and
he looked up.
Joe Pillin had his handkerchief to his mouth; he coughed feebly, then
with more and more vigour:
"I'm in very poor health," he said, at last. "I'm getting abroad at
once. This cold's killing me. What name did you say?" And he remained
with his handkerchief against his teeth.
Mr. Ventnor repeated:
"Larne. Writes stories."
Joe Pillin muttered into his handkerchief
"Ali! H'm! No--I--no! My son knows all sorts of people. I shall have to
try Mentone. Are you going? Good-bye! Good-bye! I'm sorry; ah! ha! My
cough--ah! ha h'h'm! Very distressing. Ye-hes! My cough-ah! ha h'h'm!
Most distressing.
Pages:
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173