Here Colonel Stanham Buckley waked each morning with the cold clutch of fear at his heart; fortified himself with incessant 'nips' throughout the day; and left the bulk of the work to a cheery little Adjutant, untroubled by the sorrowful great gift of imagination.
"You've several big estates round here, Otway," he began. "Any good hunting? Let me see, what pack would it be? Who's your great man?" "Sir William Budge, the sugar king, has the biggest estate. He bought out poor Stanham, who went bankrupt." "Which Stanham would that be? Verney or Alfred?" "Alfred.... I don't hunt myself. You're a great huntsman, aren't you?
His dissertation was interrupted by the appearance at the window of Colonel Stanham Buckley of the Punjab Infantry, who mopped a moist bald head, and inquired picturesquely of a passing official when the blank this blankety blank train was supposed to start. Then catching sight of a woman's figure, he vanished, with a final incoherent explosion, slamming up the window-shutter behind him.