"Poor Charlie Munro is growing old, I'm afraid. He knocks up very easily."
He sighed and added, "It's a melancholy thing, Frank, my boy, to see one's old friends slipping away from one."
"What! Is he seriously ill?" asked Frank.
"Oh, I don't mean that. I mean—well, everything has its compensating disadvantages. Mine is that my contemporaries are outgrowing me. Charlie and I started the evening in capital style; he was up to anything, and I was on for anything. But by the end of the night we were quite out of sympathy. The fact is, he is still in the sixties. However, my duty has been done; I've seen him, and that's over."
He helped himself to some more fish, and continued with animation—
"Now I can carry out my idea! I may or may not set about it the right way, but I do want to make you all happy Frank."
It was perhaps well for his continued equanimity that during the first part of this speech Frank was lost in contemplation of a singularly vivid image of Ellen Berstoun. She had a distracting habit of appearing like that to the young soldier, of which he was unable to cure her. He started out of his reverie with the last words.
"My dear father, you're the best sportsman I know," he replied warmly.
Mr. Walkingshaw looked highly gratified at this compliment.
"That's what I'm aiming at," he answered.