Capt. M. Look here! What's the meaning of it all? You never intend to leave us. You can't. Isn't the best squadron of the best regiment of the best cavalry in all the world good enough for you?
Capt. G. (Jerking his head over his shoulder.) She doesn't seem to thrive in this God-forsaken country, and there's The Butcha to be considered and all that, you know.
Capt. M. Does she say that she doesn't like India?
Capt. G. That's the worst of it. She won't for fear of leaving me.
Capt. M. What are the Hills made for?
Capt. G. Not for my wife, at any rate.
Capt. M. You know too much, Gaddy, and—I don't like you any the better for it!
Capt. G. Never mind that. She wants England, and The Butcha would be all the better for it. I'm going to chuck. You don't understand.
Capt. M. (Hotly.) I understand this!—One hundred and thirty-seven new horse to be licked into shape somehow before Luck comes round again; a hairy-heeled draft who'll give more trouble than the horses; a camp next cold weather for a certainty; ourselves the first on the roster; the Russian shindy ready to come to a head at five minutes' notice, and you, the best of us all, backing out of it all! Think a little, Gaddy. You won't do it.
Capt. G. Hang it, a man has some duties toward his family, I suppose.