“I don’t know what that means—but I’ll be glad of lunch, and more glad of a bit of a jaw!”
“Now, tell me all about yourself, Douglas,” said his schoolfellow, as they sat vis-à-vis in the marble hall. “You don’t look particularly chirpy. Still in the office?”
“Yes—I expect to live and die there.”
“Poor old boy—and doing work you hate!”
“Oh, I’m getting used to it now. I shall manage to hang on.”
“And Mrs. Shafto—how is she?”
“As usual—going strong. We live in the same boarding-house.”
“’Umph! Well, let me tell you this—you are in the black books at home. I hear you refuse all invitations and make monstrous excuses.”
“You know I’d love to go down to ‘Tremenheere,’ but how can I? My time is not my own, and I only got a week’s holiday in August and three days at Christmas. There’s nothing to tell about my career—let’s hear yours?”
Thus invited, Geoffrey, a gay young officer in a crack regiment, broke into short and vivid descriptions of Indian quarters, polo matches, and capital black-buck shooting in the Central Provinces, and gave a full and detailed history of his one tiger.