“O, but I am,” she answered. “I’m awfully glad. I think you’ve shown true British grit. You’re one of the old Bulldog Breed, and, when once you’ve set your jaw, nothing can get the better of you.”
Somehow she could not help pulling this man’s leg; and she spoke to him in this strain the more readily in that he evidently appreciated the language of what she called the Submerged Male.
“God knows it’s been a struggle,” he said: and, turning away from her, he stared out of the window.
“How did you get into all those bad habits?” she asked, looking at him with interest.
“Oh, India, I suppose,” he replied, with a shrug. “When one’s east of Suez, and the memsahibs have all gone home....”
She stopped him with a gesture. There were limits to the game of leg-pulling; and if he were going to become Anglo-Indian in his phrases, the jest would be intolerable.
“I’m so sorry I can’t come to your picnic,” she said, checking the drift of the conversation. “I’d come if I possibly could, but I’ve got to attend a meeting.”
“A meeting?” he asked, in astonishment. “That sounds a funny thing for you to be doing.”
“I’m honorary President of a fund for helping poor European children in Egypt,” she explained. “It’s a very worthy object, I believe.”
He seized his opportunity. “Yes, we’ve all got to help the unfortunate, hav’n’t we?” he said. “I do all too little myself—just a yearly donation.”