Better to Eat You Read Free Page A

and query a car entering this snobbish colony clustered about its own cove. Edgar Perrot wound through and entered upon an ascending private road that was more snobbish and more exclusive than all the rest. For there was a small headland, and on the land side of it the great main artery ran to the south. But on the sea side there was a shelf cut, and a house lay curled like a shining lizard, low, with much glass, on the lip of this shelf. The only access to the place was through the gates, through the colony, and up the winding road.
    Edgar ran his car into a big garage which was nestled between the sea and the road’s end. He opened a wrought-iron gate with a key, went up nine deep steps, and walked briskly on the brick pavement between flower beds, past a fountain, and entered the house by a glass door. To his right, the center portion of the house was one huge living room where at this hour, latish on a dull day, the curtains had all been drawn across the sea side. There was an inglenook on the land side. In the nook, on soft cushions, there sat a little gnome of a man and across the Camelot board, on a soft stool, sat a woman.
    Edgar Perrott took his place on the opposite bench, the other side of the muttering fire. The woman turned gracefully to pour his cocktail.
    â€œAnd how is Sarah?” inquired the little old man, cocking his head.
    â€œSarah’s all right.” Dr. Perrott sounded gloomy and a trifle sarcastic.
    â€œYour move, Malvina,” the old man said.
    The woman was big boned and well rounded. She had dark hair drawn tight to a great bun on the back of her neck, a tanned but fresh-looking face and very fine teeth which she knew how to show in a wide smile. She knew how to make her eyes glisten.
    â€œThere’s a professor, name of Wakeley,” said Edgar in his colorless voice. “He’s after her to be his secretary, help him write a book this summer.”
    â€œDid Sarah consent?” said the old man after a moment.
    â€œSarah did not consent.”
    â€œIt wouldn’t be desirable,” said the old man, softly. There were traces in his voice of British vowels, British rhythms.
    â€œHe may persist,” said Edgar.
    â€œIf he does,” the old man sighed, “you will think of something?”
    â€œI suppose so.” Edgar’s small pale eyes watched the woman.
    The old man leaned back. “It’s obvious, Malvina, that I’ve won again,” he said petulantly.
    â€œYou always do, Grandfather,” she purred.
    The old man said, “But Sarah is a problem, eh? A problem. Yes, a problem.”
    Sunday evening David Wakeley went to see his mother’s friend, Mrs. Consuelo McGhee.
    â€œDavey!” She held out beringed hands to him. “How nice to see you! I was about to write and complain to your mama.”
    He gave her a fond smack on the forehead. “I’m here with ulterior motives and don’t intend to waste any time on flattery.”
    â€œOh well,” she seated herself comfortably, “when a woman gets to be forty, like me, she must take what crumbs fall.” She grinned at him. She was sixty-two.
    â€œBlonde this week, hm?” David inspected her critically.
    â€œI was in the mood,” said Consuelo airily. “And I think for summer, blonde is so practical.”
    â€œIndubitably,” said David. He stretched his legs before him. “Just occurred to me that you, in the course of your wanderings among the international fleshpots, lived in England during the whole late lamentable war. Tell me, Consuelo darlin’, did you ever hear of a Bertrand Fox?”
    â€œNaturally. Fox and Lupino. What you’d call here a vaudeville team. A pair of beloved clowns, hah!”
    â€œI want to know all about him,” said David, sliding down in the chair.
    Consuelo settled her portly figure. Her shrewd eyes marked the tension and impatience that he thought he was concealing. “If you