‘No pranks, my boy,’ said De Stancy suspiciously. ‘You should be above them.’
‘And you should trust to my good sense, captain,’ Dare remonstrated. ‘I have not indulged in a prank since the sixth year of my pilgrimage. I have found them too damaging to my interests. Well, it is not too dry here, and damp injures your health, you say. Have a pull for safety’s sake.’ He presented a flask to De Stancy.
The artillery officer looked down at his nether garments.
‘I don’t break my rule without good reason,’ he observed.
‘I am afraid that reason exists at present.’
‘I am afraid it does. What have you got?’
‘Only a little wine.’
‘What wine?’
‘Do try it. I call it “the blushful Hippocrene,” that the poet describes as
“Tasting of Flora and the country green;
Dance, and Provencal song, and sun-burnt mirth.”’