The Foot of Time: A Novel of Australia and the South Seas: (1933)

224 THE FOOT OF TIME
far-reaching effect upon her feminine psychological
mentality. Miss Tooth believed the news would
sow a seed which, left alone and given time, would
undoubtedly give account of itself.
Accordingly, Florence sent for her niece.
"Another dreadful calamity has befallen Tuamonti,
the island on which Bruce spent a year," she
told the girl after they had partaken of a somewhat
silent tea together. "Pneumonic influenza, my
dear. Another of Russia's cheap exports. They
give that commodity away free."
"Really, Auntie," replied Edith listlessly. Then,
with increased animation as a sudden thought
struck her, "However did you know?"
"However did I know? Listen to the child! How
should I know? How does Florence Tooth know
anything?"
"Yes. But, Auntie"—Edith was growing slightly
excited—"why should they write and tell you
that? I suppose you are keeping in touch with
someone. What does it matter unless—"
"Just that, darling—unless!"
"You mean?"
"Scarcely a soul left alive on the island, my dear.
There was a chieftain there—dead. He had a
daughter—dead."
"Auntie! And—and all the poor little children?"
"There's not a child left alive on the little hell.
Eden, indeed! Eden fiddlesticks! All stuff and rubbish—except
the scenery!"
"Did many escape, Aunt Flossie—I mean, didn't
the islanders get some of their children away before
it was too late?"
THE FOOT OF TIME 225
"It's always too late with Island 'flu, Edie,
darling."
"Are you sure—positively, absolutely, true to
God positively certain?"
"Am I certain? Would I send for you and tell
you on the word of any one despicable he-man?
Don't I knoW 'em! Yes, my dear, your old Aunt
Florenc e is certain—as certain as that you sit there.
I've made it my business to be certain. Letters,
cables, telephone, Edith, my dear. Dead—dead!
They are dead, Edith—all of them! That chapter
is fi lisahne.ccil,yeano,, d I would to God it had never begun
"Good heavens!" Edith Burne went white as a
sheet. Trembling hands hid themselves. There was
no need. Florence had espied some more infamous
picnickers, or, at any rate, she pretended she had,
which was practically as good.
"I'm sure I don't know why I should inflict all
this news that has no interest to you in this way,
my dear," Florence turned and remarked after a
suitable interval, to allow the full import of the
tidings to sink in. "Anyhow, I felt that any time
you might by chance tumble across Mr. Swinton
You could, if you feel inclined to condescend to
speak to such a—a bounder, just tell him. Er—tell
him in passing, as it were, my dear. He might—
I said might—have some sneaking regard for a few
of the poor late wretches."
For a long space Edith was silent. The seed was
germinating; very slowly, yet as slow things can