It puzzled Sophy to witness this extraordinary enthusiasm and then to recall the cold fact that, on her return to “Heidelberg,” her aunt’s interest in these ivories seemed to wane and disappear.  Was there not a bowl of specimens in the drawing-room already consigned to oblivion and dust?  Aunt Flora’s character exhibited an amazing combination of fantastic caprice and invincible good nature.

CHAPTER XIX

CHAFF

It was Thursday, the Station holiday.  A capital paper-chase had recently engaged the entire community; the pace had been unusually severe; the obstacles large and formidable—­especially the notorious Log Jump—­and casualties were not a few.  Shafto and FitzGerald, on hot and heaving horses, had only halted for a moment at the hospitable “Finish,” where refreshments were being served, as care for their precious steeds was taking them and their animals home.  After an unusually long silence FitzGerald exclaimed, apropos of nothing in particular: 

“So—­sits the wind in that quarter?”

Shafto turned his head and met a pair of knowing Irish eyes.

“That quarter!” repeated FitzGerald, indicating the red-tiled roof of the Krausses’ bungalow, where it peeped out from amid a solid mass of palms and bamboos.

“I haven’t the remotest idea what you are driving at,” said Shafto impatiently.  “Is it a bit of dialogue in the play you are rehearsing?”

“No, me boy, that is fiction—­this is fact!  In my official capacity I am bound to take notes, and within the last week I have twice met you early of a morning riding with Miss Leigh—­no third party visible to the naked eye.  In fact, you were there before the rest of the crowd—­and, of course, the early bird gets the worm!”

“And which is the worm—­Miss Leigh or I?”

“Oh yes, you may try to laugh it off, but there’s some reason for these early tete-a-tetes.  The reason is as plain as the stick in my hand—­no, I beg its pardon, the reason is uncommonly pretty.”

“FitzGerald, you are talking most blatant bosh.”

“Maybe I am and maybe I’m not, and, let me tell you, you’re not the only string to the lady’s bow; she has as many as a harp!  There’s Fotheringay, the A.D.C.; there’s Captain Howe; there’s Bernhard——­”

“Bernhard’s a beast,” burst out Shafto.

“Naturally you would think so—­it’s only human nature.  But Otto is a handsome man and has a fine seductive voice; and mind you, music has charms to soothe the breast, savage or otherwise; as for your prospects, you may apply to me for a testimonial of character:  steady, sober——­”

“There, Fitz, that’s enough—­drop it!”

“Drop it!” repeated FitzGerald with a laugh.  “Don’t get your frills out, old boy, I mean no harm; she is by a long way the prettiest girl in the place.”

“That will do,” exclaimed Shafto impatiently; “leave the ladies alone, or, if you must discuss them, what about the little American Miss Bliss?  You danced with her half the night at the last Cinderella.”