“Don’t be foolish!  It has been tried too often!  I never allowed such foolishness at my place.  A party up-street fired from the windows.  Couldn’t see very well in the dark, but wounded two or three lions.  What happened, eh?  Why the whole pack of lions laid siege to the house!  They broke into the stable and killed three horses, a donkey, and all the cows and sheep.  There weren’t any shutters on the house windows—­nothing but glass.  It wasn’t long before a young lion broke a window, and in no time there were three full-grown ones into the house after him.  They injured one man so severely that he died next day.  They only shot two of the lions that got inside.  The other two got safely away, and since that time people here have known enough not to interfere with them except by daylight!  They’ll do no harm to speak of unless you fire and enrage them.  They’ll kill the stray dogs, or any other animal they find loose; and heaven help the man they meet!  But the place to be after six P.M. in Nairobi is indoors.  And it’s the place to stay until after sunrise!  Hear them roar!  Aren’t they magnificent?  Listen!”

The noise that twenty or thirty lions can make, deliberately bent on making it and roaring all at once, is unbelievable.  They throw their heads up and glory in strength of lungs until thunders take second place and the listener knows why not the bravest, not the most dangerous of beasts has man aged to impose the fable of his grandeur on men’s imagination.

We were summoned to the table by the din of Georges Coutlass rising to new heights of gallantry.

“Gassharamminy!” he shouted, thumping with a scarred fist.  With a poultice on his eye he looked like a swashbuckler home from the wars; and as he had not troubled to shave himself, the effect was heightened.  “What sort of company sits when a titled lady enters!” He seized a big spoon and rapped on the board with it.  “Blood of an onion!  Rise, every one!”

Everybody rose, although there were men in the room in no mind to be told their duty by a Greek.  Lady Saffren Waldon walked to a place near the head of the table with a chilling bow.  As usual when night and the yellow lamplight modified merciless outlines, she looked lovely enough.  But she lacked the royal gift of seeming at home with the vulgar herd. 
 She could make men notice her—­serve her, up to a certain point—­and feel that she was the center of interest wherever she might choose to be; but because she was everlastingly on guard, she lacked the power to put mixed company at ease.

Only the ex-missionary at the head of the table seemed to consider himself socially qualified to entertain her.  She was at no pains to conceal contempt for him.

“You honor my poor hotel!” he assured her.

“It is certainly a very poor hotel,” she answered.

“Do you expect to remain long, may I ask?”

“What right have you to ask me questions?  Tell that native to go away from behind my chair.  My own maid will wait on me!”