A flutter of feminine dresses was visible on the stoep, as they drew near the house, seeing which, an eager look came into Percival West’s face. It was not lost upon his kinsman, who smiled to himself sardonically, as he recalled how just such a light had been kindled in his own at one time, and by the same cause. What a long while ago that seemed—and to think, too, that it should ever have been possible.
A chorus of congratulation arose as the magnitude of the bag became apparent.
“Those two Britishers knocked spots out of us to-day!” cried Earle. “Bayfield and I can clean take a back seat.”
“You wouldn’t call Mr Blachland a Britisher, surely, Mr Earle?” struck in Hermia. “Why, he’s shot lions up-country.”
“Eh, has he? How d’you know?” asked Earle eagerly—while he who was most concerned mentally started.
“Didn’t he tell us so this morning?” she said, and her glance of mischief was not lost upon Blachland, who remarked:
“Does that fact denationalise me, Mrs Fenham? You said I couldn’t be counted a Britisher.”
“Well, you know what I meant.”
“Oh, perfectly.”
There was a veiled cut-and-thrust between these two: imperceptible to the others—save one.