"I like him, you know. He's very nice to me."
Mrs. Benson gasped, but recovered just in time to resume the dark oracles
in her keeping. "Ah," she said, "he _would_ be. If you can call it nice--"
"He's wonderful in the garden," Miss Percival calmly continued. "Even
Menzies admits it. He'll work all day. He's never tired."
"Nor's a tiger," the cook snapped. "Nor's a tom-cat."
Miss Percival looked pitifully at her and smiled. "Poor Struan--you don't
like him. I'll see him to-night. I have an influence, I think."
Mrs. Benson touched the hand that lay within her reach, which had lately
been upon her shoulder. "Don't, my dear, don't," she said.
"Why not?" asked the lady with her lifted brows. "Why shouldn't I?"
"Influence! The likes of him!--Gypsy blood at midnight--soft-voiced,
murderous--"
She gave no coherent answer, but smiled always, then leaned forward and
stroked Mrs. Benson upon her personable cheek. "Dear old thing, let me do
as I like. It's much better for everybody," she presently said.
II
It had clouded over after sunset: there was no moon visible, but an
irradiance was omnipresent, and showed the muffled yew-tree walks, and the
greater trees colossal, mountains overshadowing the land.
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