He had been with Daintree now some eight or nine weeks; there were deep lines in his face, but his eyes were no longer inflamed and ferocious, and he was beginning to hold them up again as of old. The debonair glance had not come back—it was gone for ever. And his back was still marked (the master saw it when they bathed), and his walk was still shambling. Yet day by day peace was creeping into his heart; day by day he liked Daintree better; and day by day the little cork Rosamund left the Cape farther astern and came nearer and nearer Sydney Heads.
CHAPTER XXXII
A MARRIAGE MARKET
One morning, when Tom was busy in his pantry, a tearful voice advised him that he was wanted in the study at once. The woman vanished as he turned; the kitchen door slammed upon her sobs; and in the study Tom found his master in a towering rage.
“You profess some gratitude towards me, I believe?” said Daintree, with a biting ceremony of voice and manner.
“Not more than I feel—not half as much!”
“Then you are the exception, and now’s your chance of showing what you say you feel. I’m going to ask a favour of you, Thomas.”
“You shouldn’t put it so, sir. I love to serve you.”
“Then go to Parramatta factory and choose a wife!”
Tom twitched all over, and stood very still without a word. The other covered him with an ugly eye.
