“Who says I am immaculate? Not I. You thrust virtues upon me and then cry out when I don’t come up to your notions of an archangel.”
“And your church-going and your alms-giving and your brand-new coppers and general holiness? Eh, sonny?”
“I’ve a creed, as four-fifths of the men down here are supposed to have; but whereas they deny in their acts what they repeat with their tongues, I prefer to perform what I profess. There’s a fine lack of logic about the way men regard their faith; each time they repeat their Credo they’re self-condemned fools. Well, I don’t relish making a fool of myself. Either I’ll be an infidel, and thus set myself free, or else I’ll act up to what I say. For that you praise me. Now, the only virtue to which I do lay claim is patience, of which I think I possess an extraordinary store.”
Lucian peeled a walnut with painstaking earnestness, and ate it with salt and pepper. The shell he flicked across at Farquhar, who had fallen into a brown study and was looking very grim. He looked up with a quick, involuntary smile.
“Did you shoot all these horned beasties yourself?” Lucian inquired, introducing the elk and the stag with a wave of the hand.
“Yes. I shot the elk in Russia; the horns weigh a good eighty pounds. Shy brutes they are, and fierce when at bay; this one lamed me with a kick after I thought I had done for him.”
“My biggest bag was twenty sjamboks running,” said Lucian, pensively. “I and some others were up country on a big shoot, and, of course, I got fever and had to lie up. Well, they used to come in with their blesbok and their springbok, and all the rest of it, so I didn’t see why I shouldn’t do a little on my own. So I lined up all our niggers with a sjambok apiece, and made my bag from my couch of pain. I worked those sjamboks afterwards for all they were worth. Yes, sir-ree.”
“Sometimes I really think you’re daft, De Saumarez!”
“Pray don’t mention it. Let’s see, where were you? Oh, in Russia. No, I’ve never been there—I don’t know Russia at all.”
“I do.”