"And a fine sport!" said the dwarf, musingly. "That shows invention, Phillips. That really shows ingenuity, do you know? You grumble, my good fellow, but you don't seem to realise what this is doing for you. You have lived forty odd years without imagination; now you are developing one; against your will, it is true, but the effect is no less admirable. I admire you, Phillips; I do indeed."
He smiled up at the man, who regarded him gloomily, yet with a look of affection.
"I wish you would give it up," he said, simply. "I wish to goodness you would give it up, Mr. Ellery, and come home. A man like you living this life—the life of an animal, sir—it's monstrous. Think of your interests, think of your estate, of all the people who looked to you; of—"
"By the way," said the dwarf again, "have you paid those legacies?"
"I know nothing about any legacies," replied the man, peevishly. "I'll have nothing to do with any such talk as that. When I see you dead and in your coffin, Mark Ellery, it'll be time enough to talk about legacies."
"I don't like coffins!" murmured the dwarf, looking up at the black hole in the great buttonwood tree. "I never intend—go on, Phillips. You paid the money, did you say?"
"Yes, sir, I did; but I did not tell the old ladies you were dead, because you were not, and I am not engaged to tell lies of that description. Professional fiction I must use, since you drive me to it; but lie to those old women I could not and did not!"
"No," said the dwarf, soothingly, "surely not; I could not expect that, Phillips. And you told them that I was—"
"In Thibet," said the man. "Hunting the wild ass. I told you that before."
"Precisely," said the dwarf. "Don't limit yourself too strictly, Phillips. You might vary the place a little oftener than you do, and find it more amusing. It would have impressed the old ladies more, for instance, if you had said that I was in Mashonaland, converting the wild ass—I mean the black man. The old ladies are well, I trust?"