“Hullo! Bunny. Still here, then?”
Bunnett and his mother sniffed in concert, a deep and melancholy comment on life.
“Still here,” agreed Bunnett, and his mother added, “So you’re back in London, Mr. Royce?”
“For a few days,” Royce admitted.
“South African job turn out all right?” Bunnett asked.
Royce hesitated. In one swift flash of retrospect he looked back on those full and varied adventures that had begun for him with the voyage to Capetown, and knew that though he stood there talking and boasting for a week, he could not convey to old Bunnett and his mother one-hundredth part of the romance and wonder that had glorified his existence for fifteen years.
“Oh! yes; all right,” he said; “and you? Still with Stamps?”
And Bunnett, too, hesitated as if there were something he also lacked power to describe before he answered “Yes, still there.”
The conversation seemed to offer no further possibilities. For a moment they stood awkwardly, and then Bunnett said, “My mother’s a bit of an invalid, but she’s been a little better lately.” He sniffed thoughtfully.
As Royce made his way back to his hotel he modestly thanked God that he was not as some other men.