“Bernhard’s a beast,” burst out Shafto.
“Naturally you would think so—it’s only human nature. But Otto is a handsome man and has a fine seductive voice; and mind you, music has charms to soothe the breast, savage or otherwise; as for your prospects, you may apply to me for a testimonial of character: steady, sober——”
“There, Fitz, that’s enough—drop it!”
“Drop it!” repeated FitzGerald with a laugh. “Don’t get your frills out, old boy, I mean no harm; she is by a long way the prettiest girl in the place.”
“That will do,” exclaimed Shafto impatiently; “leave the ladies alone, or, if you must discuss them, what about the little American Miss Bliss? You danced with her half the night at the last Cinderella.”
“Ah! now I suppose you think you’re carrying the war into the enemy’s quarter, don’t ye? Dancing is not compromising—like solitary rides with a girl before the world is warm, and Miss Bliss, by name and nature, is the only girl in Rangoon who can do a decent turkey trot. Now, as to Miss Leigh——”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake leave Miss Leigh alone and talk about something else—talk about horses.”
“Talk about horses,” repeated FitzGerald in a teasing voice, “and if he isn’t blushing up to his ears! I’ll tell you what, young Shafto, it’s a treat to see a real blush in this part of the world; blushing is rare in Burma, and I’d just like to have your coloured photograph,” continued FitzGerald, whose methods of chaff were as rude and crude as those of any schoolboy.
“Come, don’t let’s have any more of this, Fitz, or you and I will quarrel.”
FitzGerald grinned from ear to ear, delighted at the rise he had taken out of his companion, touched his cap, and said: