“But come along with us now. You will dine with us and spend the night,” urged the Colonel.
“Thank you,” said Gaspard, searching his face with his gaunt and wistful gaze. “Thank you all the same, I know you mean it, but I shall camp tonight”—he paused a moment or two as if gathering strength to continue—“at the bungalow. You see,” he continued, hurrying over the words, “I am a bit tired, I have a lot of things to do, I am in no shape to appear anywhere, I must get cleaned up. I’m a perfect savage, Mrs. Pelham. I have been living among savages, I have become dehumanised. I must be alone tonight.” He raised his hat, bowed with his old grace, and disappeared into the bush.
“God in Heaven!” breathed the Colonel. “What a wreck! Poor devil! Poor devil! What a wreck!”
“Horrible!” echoed his wife. “Ghastly! Horrible! Disgusting!”
The Colonel caught her up quickly. “Disgusting? Well, that’s rather hard, isn’t it, Augusta? Horrible, yes. Ghastly, too. Poor soul! My heart aches for him.”
“You are really most trying, Edgar,” burst out his wife. “Have you no eyes? Can you see nothing? Disgusting is the only word.”
“Why, my dear!” began the Colonel in astonishment.
“Oh, I have no patience with you,” replied his wife. “Can’t you see? That—that woman! Those children! And to flaunt that all in our faces here, who knew his wife! Horrible! Disgusting! And yet you asked him to our house! You remember the rumours of three years ago? You were keen then that we should give him the benefit of the doubt. Well, there is doubt no longer.” Her laugh was hard and scornful.
“But, my dear Augusta, why imagine the worst? Why not give the man a chance? It may be—there may be some satisfactory explanation.”
“Oh, you are quite impossible! Surely one look at that—that—menage is enough to sicken anybody.”