“Listen!” entreated Marcus.
They listened. There was the screaming of birds disturbed: the chippering of chicks alarmed; but no sound of Diana’s voice, or anything like it.
“It looks stormy,” said Marcus, turning up the collar of his coat.
“A bit choppy,” admitted Hastings.
“The mist rolls up—List to the sound of guns—buns—duns—puns—runs—” said Watkins; then he added wistfully, “It’s curious that there is no rhyme to month.”
“Who wants one?” asked Pease.
“It’s not a question of wanting one, my dear Pease; there is not one to be had. If I stay here a month I cannot say so in a poem without great difficulty, and probably—”
“There’s bunth, of course,” said Hastings, “but perhaps he doesn’t count.” He lit a cigarette.
“Never heard of such a word.”
“No? He—or it if you prefer it—is a jolly little beast, usually to be found in the tropics under a leaf, and is something between a marmoset and a beetle.” Hastings threw away the match with which he had lighted his cigarette and Marcus picked it up; he hated matches thrown about.