"What skin is that, my boy?" he repeated in what he thought was the right tone of avuncular jocularity and looking down at Harold, who was examining with myopic intensity the dressing-case. "That is the skin of a white elephant."
"But it's brown," Harold objected.
John rashly decided to extend his facetiousness.
"Yes, well, white elephants turn brown when they're shot, just as lobsters turn red when they're boiled."
"Who shot it?"
"Oh, I don't know—probably some friend of the gentleman who keeps the shop where I bought it."
"When?"
"Well, I can't exactly say when—but probably about three years ago."
"Father used to shoot elephants, didn't he?"
"Yes, my boy, your father used to shoot elephants."