"Of course," continued the elder gentleman, clearing his throat, "I can readily imagine that for you—a society man before anything—these regions are a vast desert, you are thrown away here, and are figuratively a castaway, out of humanity's reach. And now fate seems induced to smile upon you once more, in sending you a possibly pretty creature to be the sharer of your many empty hours. If I thought you would be serious, I would not say anything; or if this girl was a hardened veteran of a dozen seasons, and knew the difference between jest and earnest, again I would hold my peace; but as it is, I sum up the whole subject in one word, and with regard to Helen Denis, I say, don't."
"Hear hear," cried his friend, hammering loudly on the table. "Doctor, your eloquence is positively touching; but you always were the ladies' champion. All the same you are exaggerating the situation; I am a most innocent, inoffensive——"
"Come now, James Quentin; how about that girl at Poonah that you made the talk of the station? How about the girls you proposed to up at Matheran and Murree; what about the irate father who followed you to Lahore, and from whom you concealed yourself behind the refreshment-room counter? Eh!"
"Now, now, doctor, I'll cry peccavi. Spare me before Lisle."
Who lay back in his chair smoking a cigar—and looking both bored and indifferent.
"You don't go in for ladies' society on Ross?" said Dr. Parks, addressing him abruptly.
"I—no—" struggling to an erect posture, and knocking the ash off his cigar. "I only know one lady over there, and she is a host in herself."
"You mean Mrs. Creery?"
"Yes, I allude to Mrs. Creery."
And at the very mention of the name, they all three laughed aloud.