“For the matter of that neither are the Indians,” said the Hon. Evelyn Rayne.  “Did you ever see such grotesque creatures in their cast-off boots and trousers?  They’re no better than gypsies.  I wonder what Mr. Atherly can find in them.”

“And he a rich man, too,—­they say he’s got a mine in California worth a million,—­to take up a craze like this,” added the lively Mrs. Captain Joyce, “that’s what gets me!  You know,” she went on confidentially, “that cranks and reformers are always poor—­it’s quite natural; but I don’t see what he, a rich man, expects to make by his reforms, I’m sure.”

“He’ll get over it in time,” said the Hon. Evelyn Kayne, “they all do.  At least he expects to get the reforms he wants in a year, and then he’s coming over to England again.”

“Indeed, how very nice,” responded Lady Runnybroke quickly.  “Did he say so?”

“No.  But Friddy says he is.”

The two officers’ wives glanced at each other.  Lady Runnybroke put up her eyeglass in default of ostrich feathers, and said didactically, “I’m sure Mr. Atherly is very much in earnest, and sincerely devoted to his work.  And in a man of his wealth and position here it’s most estimable.  My dear,” she said, getting up and moving towards Mrs. Lascelles, “we were just saying how good and unselfish your brother was in his work for these poor people.”

But Jenny Lascelles must have been in one of those abstracted moods which so troubled her husband, for she seemed to be staring straight before her into the recesses of the wood.  In her there was a certain resemblance to the attitude of a listening animal.

“I wish Mr. Atherly was a little more unselfish to us poor people,” said the Hon. Evelyn Kayne, “for he and Friddy have been nearly an hour looking for a place to spread our luncheon baskets.  I wish they’d leave the future of the brown races to look after itself and look a little more after us.  I’m famished.”

“I fancy they find it difficult to select a clear space for so large a party as we will be when the gentlemen come in,” returned Lady Runnybroke, glancing in the direction of Jenny’s abstracted eyes.

“I suppose you must feel like chicken and salad, too, Lady Runnybroke,” suggested Mrs. Captain Joyce.

“I don’t think I quite know how chicken and salad feel, dear,” said Lady Runnybroke with a puzzled air, “but if that’s one of your husband’s delightful American stories, do tell us.  I never can get Runnybroke to tell me any, although he roars over them all.  And I dare say he gets them all wrong.  But look, here comes our luncheon.”