“I’m not a slang dictionary. Suppose we talk seriously.”
“Certainly,” said I, reaching out for the jam.
He cleared his throat. “I got a lot of letters and telegrams last night,” he said.
“How did you manage that?” I asked.
“They were waiting for me at the post-office here. I had telegraphed for them to be forwarded. And I’m afraid—I’m sorry, but it’s inevitable—we shall have to be off.”
“Off what?” said I, for a few of the more intimate English idioms still remained for me to master.
“Off,” said he. “Go. Leave this.”
“Oh,” said I. “Well, we are used to that. This tour, my dear sir, is surely the very essence of what you call being off. Where do we go next? I trust to a place with trees in it.”
“You don’t understand, Baron. We don’t go anywhere next as far as the caravans are concerned. My wife and I are obliged to go home.”
I was, of course, surprised. “We are, indeed,” said I, after a moment, “shrinking rapidly.”