‘You were at school together, then?’ Mrs. Prioleau asked civilly, but she was evidently too apathetic to care about the reply.
‘We played together, Mrs. Prioleau, not with hoop or ball, or peg tops, but at the great game of war.’
‘Ashanti, I presume,’ the general said.
‘The idea of calling that a war, sir,’ interposed our bumptious A.D.C. ‘A picnic would be a better name.’
‘It was not a picnic under the usual circumstances, at any rate,’ Herbert said quietly, as one entitled to speak.
‘No foiegras and hothouse grapes, perhaps,’ went on Mountcharles; ‘but you must admit that the whole thing was monstrously exaggerated.’
‘O, how can you say so?’ cried Edith, quite eagerly.
‘And the honours, too, look how they were overdone. Why there were more rewards than for Waterloo.’
‘Some of them were richly deserved; one in particular, which I could mention,’ replied Edith, with the air of a champion defending the right.
‘It isn’t everyone who gets the chance to deserve them,’ said Mountcharles, rather sulkily. He had never seen a shot fired himself, and bore malice in his heart to all who had had better luck.