“Good morning, Madam,” Hoopdriver said when Jessie entered the breakfast room on Monday morning.
He smiled, bowed, rubbed his hands together, and pulled out a chair for her.
Then he rubbed his hands again.
Jessie stopped and stared at him.
“Where have I seen that before?”
“The chair?” Hoopdriver asked, his face turning red.
“No. That whole performance.”
She walked over and shook his hand, studying his face with curiosity.
“And why do you call me ‘Madam’?”
“It’s a habit,” Hoopdriver admitted awkwardly. “A bad one, perhaps.”
“You should stop doing it.”
“Yes. I probably should.”
“You can blame it on the colonies, if you like,” he added quickly. “Out there, especially in the country, there aren’t many ladies around. So everyone calls them Madam.”
Jessie smiled.
“You really have some strange habits, brother Chris.”
“Brother Chris?”
“Yes. Before you sell your imaginary diamond shares, enter high society, and run for Parliament, you should get rid of them.”
She laughed softly.
“What a wonderful thing it must be to be a man.”
Hoopdriver smiled uncertainly.
“That habit of bowing, rubbing your hands, and looking at people as if you are waiting for instructions—it’s very noticeable.”
“It’s just a habit.”
“I know. But I don’t think it’s a good one.”
“You don’t mind telling me?”
“Not at all. I’m grateful.”
“I have a habit of noticing little things,” Jessie said.
She glanced around the breakfast room.
Hoopdriver automatically reached for his moustache.
Then he stopped.
Perhaps that was another habit she might notice.
He quickly put his hand into his pocket instead.
He felt horribly awkward.
Jessie’s eyes wandered around the room.
She noticed that a strip of fabric had come loose from one of the armchairs.
“Do you have a pin?” she asked.
Hoopdriver’s hand immediately moved toward his jacket.
He had two spare pins hidden there.
He had picked them up almost without thinking.
Jessie stared at him as he handed one over.
“What an unusual place to keep pins.”
“It’s convenient.”
“Why?”
“I once saw someone in a shop do it.”
“You must be a very careful person.”
Jessie knelt beside the chair and began fixing the loose fabric.
Hoopdriver waited a moment before speaking.
“In the middle of Africa—or rather, up country—you learn to appreciate pins.”
Jessie looked up.
“There aren’t many pins lying around in Africa,” he continued.
“They certainly don’t grow on trees.”
His face had become bright red.
He suddenly wondered what other strange habits he might accidentally reveal.
He pushed both hands into his coat pockets.
Then he secretly took out the second pin and dropped it behind him.
Ping!
The pin struck the metal fender with a surprisingly loud sound.
Jessie didn’t seem to notice.
She was concentrating on the chair.
Hoopdriver stood beside the breakfast table instead of sitting down.
Breakfast seemed to be taking forever.
He picked up his rolled napkin and examined the ring around it.
Then he felt the fabric between his fingers.
He caught himself just before touching one of his teeth, another little habit he had developed.
He suddenly realized he was standing like a shopkeeper behind a counter.
Embarrassed, he sat down.
He began tapping his fingers on the table.
He felt hot and painfully self-conscious.
“Breakfast is very late,” Jessie said, standing up.
“Isn’t it?”
Neither of them seemed to know what else to say.
Jessie asked how far it was to Ringwood.
Hoopdriver answered.
Then the room became quiet again.
Trying desperately to look relaxed, Hoopdriver studied the breakfast table.
Without thinking, he lifted the edge of the tablecloth between his fingers.
He examined it carefully.
“Fifteen shillings and threepence,” he thought.
“Why are you doing that?”
Hoopdriver dropped the tablecloth as if it had burned him.
“What?”
“You keep looking at the tablecloth like that.”
Jessie pointed at it.
“I noticed you doing the same thing yesterday.”
Hoopdriver’s face turned an even deeper red.
He began nervously pulling at his moustache.
“I know.”
He sighed.
“I know it’s a strange habit.”
Jessie waited.
“But when you live out there, you know, there are native servants around, and you have to check things.”
“Check what?”
“Whether they’re clean.”
He nodded seriously.
“You get into the habit of looking closely at everything.”
Jessie stared at him.
“How strange.”
“Isn’t it?”
He looked miserable.
Jessie smiled.
“If I were Sherlock Holmes, I suppose I could have worked out that you came from the colonies just by watching little things like that.”
She paused.
“But I guessed correctly, didn’t I?”
“Yes,” Hoopdriver said sadly.
“You guessed it.”
He suddenly realized that this was the perfect moment to tell her the truth.
He could simply say:
You guessed the wrong man.
Perhaps she already suspected him.
Perhaps she had been testing him all along.
But before he could speak, the door swung open.
A maid entered carrying a tray of coffee and scrambled eggs.
“I suppose I’m sometimes rather good at guessing things,” Jessie said.
Hoopdriver stared at her.
The guilt he had been carrying for two days suddenly became almost unbearable.
What a miserable liar he was.
And sooner or later, he knew, he was bound to be exposed.