“They won’t bone Mr Umar Khan,” said another Solon of the rail-roost. “He’s skipped over into Afghanistan long ago, and the Amir won’t give him up, you bet. Shouldn’t wonder if he was at the bottom of it all himself.” At that time the Amir of Kabul was a very Mephisto in the sight of the collective and amateur wisdom of the Northern border.
A wave of interest here ran along the line of the rail-roosters—evoked by the bowling up of a neat dogcart, whose occupants, two in number, were alighting at the door of the feminine department of the club.
“By Jove! Those are two pretty girls. And neither belong here,” added the speaker plaintively.
“She can handle the ribbons, that Miss Wymer,” cut in another of more sporting vein, who had been critically surveying the arrival of the turn-out. “She’s got a fine hand on that high-actioned gee of old Jermyn’s. Isn’t that the brute that Wendsley had to sell because his wife couldn’t drive him?”
“No. You’ve got the affair all mixed,” returned yet another emphatically. And then, while a warm horse argument grew and thrived among one section, another continued and fostered apace the discussion concerning those just deposited there through the motive power of the quadruped under dispute.
“I don’t think Miss Wymer is pretty,” declared a Solon of the rail. “She’s awfully fetching, though.”
“Rather. There’s a something about her you don’t often meet with, and you don’t know what the devil it is, either. By the way, wasn’t old Bracebrydge properly smashed on her?”
“Oh, he’s that on every woman under the sun—in rotation. This one let him have what for, though.”
“Did she? Eh, what about? How was it?” exclaimed several.
“Rather. They were talking about the Mehriâb affair, and Bracebrydge said something sneering about that poor plucky devil, Campian. You know what a blundering, tactless, offensive beast Bracebrydge can be. Well, he said they were all making too much of the affair, and more than hinted that Campian had only done what he did so as to seize the first opportunity of running away later on. Miss Wymer only answered that she thought she knew one or two who wouldn’t have waited for that—they’d have run away at the start. But it was the way she said it, looking him straight in the face all the time. By George, it was great, I can tell you—great. Bracebrydge looked as sick as if he had just been hit in the eye.”