“Ask them,” Antony chuckled, and sauntered off, leaving the three alone.
“What was Tony laughing at?” the girl persisted.
Dr. Crossland smiled sagely, but shook his head decidedly.
“I’ll tell you some day, if I dare, Mrs. Crespin,” Bruce promised her. “Wouldn’t dare tell you now, don’t you know. My hat, I’m glad we’ve hopped on to your boat—no end a tamasha we’ll have getting out to our 306-in-the-shade paradise. I say, don’t you let Crespin give us the slip in Calcutta, will you?”
“Why did he laugh? What was funny? Do tell me.”
But neither man would do that.
But they each fell very industriously to making particularly good friends with Antony Crespin’s wife.
And that night in the stateroom they shared each made a cryptic remark, one to his hair-brush, one to the shoe he kicked off.
“Thank the Lord!” Tom Bruce told his shoe audibly.
George Crossland, under his breath said to his brush, frowning at it, “Poor girl!”