“Faust, you mean?”

 

“That’s the beggar. Rum story. Some of us would do it if we could.”

 

“Any one would think you were creaking at the joints to hear you talk,” cried

Flora, half vexed, half amused.

 

Blunt said nothing for a minute or two. Then he looked away from Flora into the

middle distance and observed to an adjacent tree trunk that it was about time he

got back to Africa.

 

“Are you going on another expedition—shooting things?”

 

“Expect so. Usually do, you know—shoot things, I mean.”

 

“You shot that head in the hall, didn’t you?”

 

Blunt nodded. Then he jerked out, going rather red, as he did so:—

 

“Care for some decent skins any time? If so, I could get ’em for you.”

 

“Oh! please do,” cried Flora. “Will you really? You won’t forget?”

 

“I shan’t forget,” said Hector Blunt.