Playing with Fire: A Story of the Soudan War

by James Grant

'Nothing more?'

'Nothing more—and care little, as you may suppose,' he replied, avoiding her keen searching eye by carefully filling his pipe. 'There is always some row on,' he grumbled; 'what a petty world this is after all—I wonder if the fixed stars are inhabited.'

'That will not matter to you, I should think.'

'Why?'

'You will go some other way, I fear.'

'Deb, your surmise is unpleasant.'

The manner of Hawkey Sharpe to his sister had lost, just then, much of its general self-contained assurance. She detected the change, and it rendered her suspicious.

'Save this poor little dog Fifine,' said she, caressing the cur she carried under an arm, and which was greedily sniffing the débris of Mr. Hawkey's supper, 'I do not know a living creature who really cares for me!'

'Oh—come now, Deb—hang it!' said her brother in an expostulatory manner.

'You have some object in coming here to-night,' said she sternly; 'to the point at once, Hawkey?'