“In the eyes of the psycho-analyst, all things are vile,” I replied sententiously.
“You must have had a very interesting life, Colonel Race?” said Miss Beddingfeld, gazing at him with wide, starry eyes.
That’s how they do it, these girls! Othello charmed Desdemona by telling her stories, but, oh, didn’t Desdemona charm Othello by the way she listened?
Anyway, the girl set Race off all right. He began to tell lion stories. A man who has shot lions in large quantities has an unfair advantage over other men. It seemed to me that it was time I, too, told a lion story. One of a more sprightly character.
“By the way,” I remarked, “that reminds me of a rather exciting tale I heard. A friend of mine was out on a shooting trip somewhere in East Africa. One night he came out of his tent for some reason, and was startled by a low growl. He turned sharply and saw a lion crouching to spring. He had left his rifle in the tent. Quick as thought, he ducked, and the lion sprang right over his head. Annoyed at having missed him, the animal growled and prepared to spring again. Again he ducked, and again the lion sprang right over him. This happened a third time, but by now he was close to the entrance of the tent, and he darted in and seized his rifle. When he emerged, rifle in hand, the lion had disappeared. That puzzled him greatly. He crept round the back of the tent, where there was a little clearing. There, sure enough, was the lion, busily practising low jumps.”
This was received with a roar of applause. I drank some champagne.
“On another occasion,” I remarked, “this friend of mine had a second curious experience. He was trekking across country, and being anxious to arrive at his destination before the heat of the day he ordered his boys to inspan whilst it was still dark. They had some trouble in doing so, as the mules were very restive, but at last they managed it, and a start was made. The mules raced along like the wind, and when daylight came they saw why. In the darkness, the boys had inspanned a lion as the near wheeler.”
This, too, was well received, a ripple of merriment going round the table, but I am not sure that the greatest tribute did not come from my friend, the Labour Member, who remained pale and serious.
“My God!” he said anxiously. “Who un’arnessed them?”
“I must go to Rhodesia,” said Mrs. Blair. “After what you have told us, Colonel Race, I simply must. It’s a horrible journey though, five days in the train.”