SIR HOWARD. Yes. A few years ago the collapse of the West Indian sugar industry converted the income of the estate into an annual loss of about 150 pounds a year. If I can't sell it soon, I shall simply abandon it—unless you, Mr. Rankin, would like to take it as a present.
RANKIN (laughing). I thank your lordship: we have estates enough of that sort in Scotland. You're setting with your back to the sun, Leddy Ceecily, and losing something worth looking at. See there. (He rises and points seaward, where the rapid twilight of the latitude has begun.)
LADY CICELY (getting up to look and uttering a cry of admiration). Oh, how lovely!
SIR HOWARD (also rising). What are those hills over there to the southeast?
RANKIN. They are the outposts, so to speak, of the Atlas Mountains.
LADY CICELY. The Atlas Mountains! Where Shelley's witch lived! We'll make an excursion to them to-morrow, Howard.
RANKIN. That's impoassible, my leddy. The natives are verra dangerous.
LADY CICELY. Why? Has any explorer been shooting them?
RANKIN. No. But every man of them believes he will go to heaven if he kills an unbeliever.
LADY CICELY. Bless you, dear Mr. Rankin, the people in England believe that they will go to heaven if they give all their property to the poor. But they don't do it. I'm not a bit afraid of that.