"You did; the local colour about the mosquitoes convinced me. Go on about the girl."
An obstinate expression hardened Sayre's face; the breeze stirred a lock on his handsome but prematurely bald forehead; he gazed menacingly at his companion through his gold pince-nez.
"I'll blue-pencil my own stuff," he said. "If you want to hear how it happened you'll listen to the literary part, too."
"Go on, then," said Langdon, sullenly.
"I will. . . . The sunlight fell softly upon the trees of the ancient wood; bosky depths cast velvety shadows——"
"What is a bosky depth? What is boskiness? By heaven, I've waited years to ask; and now's my chance? You tell me what 'bosky' is, or——"
"Do you want to hear about that girl?"
"Yes, but——"
"Then you fill your face full of flapjack and shut up."
Langdon bit rabidly at a flapjack and beat the earth with his heels.