The priest jumped up and came to the gate. He was a man about Wagram’s own age, or a shade older, a cultured man, and possessed of a fund of strong practical common sense, together with a keen sense of humour. The two were great friends.
“Come in, come in, and help a lonely man through a lonely half hour, or as many half-hours as you can spare; though I suppose it’s getting too near your dinner time for that.”
“Why don’t you stroll up with me and join us?” said Wagram, subsiding into a cane chair.
“Thanks, but I can’t to-night, and that for more reasons than one. Now, what’ll you be taking?”
“Nothing, thanks, just now,” answered Wagram, filling his pipe. “I’ve got a mighty unpleasant job sticking out if ever there was one. Went out to knock over a rabbit or two, and knocked over one of the blue wildebeeste instead. How’s that?”
The priest gave a whistle.
“I wouldn’t like to be the man to break the news to the old Squire,” he said, “unless the man happened to be yourself. Did you kill it?”
“Dead as a herring, or rather, the girl did.”
“The girl did! What girl?”
“Why, the one the brute was chevying. Of course I had to get between, don’t you see?”