"Don't be bashful," the woman said, smiling. "I'm sure Mr. Caine would like to see what a cat can do."
She looked at Caine as though she were about to tell him a delightfully domestic story that had been, until now, nurtured between just her husband and her. "This was a leopard, Mr. Caine. A long vicious leopard. Mr. Fairchild, you see, didn't hit him right, and so he got Charles from about here," she tapped herself just below the neck, "to here." She touched her waist. "It's a long scar, Mr. Caine. Isn't it, Charles? About three inches wide, and...."
The man brought his glass down against the arm of the chair. "Shut up, Janet. I'll tell you nicely. Just shut up!"
"Charles," she said, blinking in exaggerated surprise. "I just wanted to tell Mr. Caine, because he's hunted, too, and while I don't know if these grith cats are anything like leopards...."
The man's eyes had become wide and angry. "I won't tell you again, Janet."
"I'm sorry, Charles." She smiled at him assuringly and blinked again. "We're just excited about tomorrow, I guess, aren't we?"
Fairchild returned his stare to his glass, noticed it was empty, and filled it.
"Can't I interest you in a drink, yet, Mr. Caine?" Mrs. Fairchild said.
"Not right now," Caine said.
"Oh." Her voice pouted. "But I think we should celebrate. Here Charles and I have come all this way to find the Screece gem, and we're sitting within fifty miles of it, and I think we all ought to celebrate."