“That’s just it. You’ve hit it, Mrs Tarleton. There will be found a good deal of acidity about that particular bunch, and that’s why I don’t envy Raynier.”
“Well, you can’t expect anyone to be perfect, can you?” struck in Tarleton, inconsequently oppositious as usual.
“Never said I could,” answered Haslam, lighting another cheroot. “What do you think about her, Miss Clive?”
“How can I give an opinion on a ‘brother woman,’ Mr Haslam, especially to a man?” laughed Hilda. “If I don’t say she’s perfect, you’ll go away and tell everybody I’m jealous. If I do you won’t believe me.”
“Hallo. That’s rather good,” said the Forest Officer, who liked Hilda Clive, and resented the fact of the other coming there to cut her out, as he persisted on looking at it. “But, I say. Talking of—er—who we were talking about—it’s my belief she’s hedging.”
“What the doose do you mean by that Haslam?” said Tarleton. The other cackled.
“Why, she’s making running up there in the garrison. Supposing Raynier never came back, poor chap—eh? Or supposing he was hauled over the coals for not foreseeing this tumasha, as it’s not impossible he may be, and sent back to some beastly Plains station—what then? Young Beecher for instance—they say he has no end of expectations. Eh? They do a good deal together.”
“Now, really, Mr Haslam, you are a regular scandalmonger,” laughed Mrs Tarleton, who was thoroughly enjoying the Forest Officer’s strictures. “I’m sure Miss Daintree is a very nice, sweet, affectionate girl, and Mr Raynier is to be congratulated.”
“Affectionate dev— h’m, h’m. She’s got a cold eye.”
“A what?”