"I don't think so," she replied, with a splutter of mirth, wondering what whimsicality was coming next. "Why?"
"Only that its covering is getting rather thin, as no self-respecting haircutter ever loses the opportunity of reminding me."
"That's nothing. Look at Mr. Dyson, for instance. Now he might say that. Yet he is a most indefatigable dancer."
"Yes, and that ostrich-egg of his bobbing up and down above the gay and giddy rout is one of the most ridiculous sights on earth. Are you urging me to furnish a similar absurdity?"
"But you might do something to help amuse us. In fact, it is only your duty."
"Hallo! Excuse me, Miss Ormskirk, but that's exactly what that fellow Mac—Mac—something—I never can remember his name—the doctor, you know—was trying to drive into me the other night. I told him I didn't come on board this ship for the purpose of amusing my fellow-creatures—not any—but with the object of being transported to Cape Town with all possible despatch."
"Then you leave the ship at Cape Town? Are you, too, going on to Johannesburg?"
"Not being dead, yes."
"Not being dead? Why, what in the world do you mean?"