“Lightly loaded, so that won’t be in the way. Very well, then. Can you be ready in an hour’s time?”
“Oh, there’s no such hurry, Driffield,” urged Peters. “Now you’ve lugged me away from my millionaire factory, you must make it worth while, and let’s have time for a smoke and a yarn.”
The Native Commissioner agreed to start an hour later; and then there was much chaff at Peters’ expense in his prospecting operations. Then Driffield said—
“You’ll be coming over to the race meeting at Gandela, I suppose, Lamont?”
“Don’t know. When is it?”
“End of week after next.”
“I don’t care much for race meetings.”
“Oh, but there’ll be a regular gymkhana—tent-pegging and all sorts of fun. Oh, and Miss Vidal says you are to be sure and turn up.”
“Oh, get out with you, Driffield, and take that yarn somewhere else.”
“It’s a solemn fact, Lamont. She was booming you no end the other day—saying what a devil of a chap you were, and all that sort of thing. I asked her if I should tell you to roll up at the race meeting, and she answered in that candid, innocent way of hers ‘Of course.’ You can’t stay away after that. Can he, Peters?”