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Flory being brought indoors–and came back in a moment with the skin rolled up in a bundle.
‘Ass a matter of fact——’ he began, unrolling it.
‘Oh, doctor!’
The skin had been utterly ruined. It was as stiff as cardboard, with the leather cracked and the fur
discoloured and even rubbed off in patches. It also stank abominably. Instead of being cured, it had
been converted into a piece of rubbish.
‘Oh, doctor! What a mess they’ve made of it! How the devil did it happen?’
‘I am so sorry, my friend! I wass about to apologise. It wass the best we could do. There iss no one
at the jail who knows how to cure skins now.’
‘But, damn it, that convict used to cure them so beautifully!’
‘Ah, yes. But he iss gone from us these three weeks, alas.’
‘Gone? I thought he was doing seven years?’
‘What? Did you not hear, my friend? I thought you knew who it wass that used to cure the skins. It
wass Nga Shwe O.’
‘Nga Shwe O?’
‘The dacoit who escaped with U Po Kyin’s assistance.’
‘Oh, hell!’
The mishap had daunted him dreadfully. Nevertheless, in the afternoon, having bathed and put on a
clean suit, he went up to the Lackersteens’ house, at about four. It was very early to call, but he
wanted to make sure of catching Elizabeth before she went down to the Club. Mrs Lackersteen, who
had been asleep and was not prepared for visitors, received him with an ill grace, not even asking
him to sit down.
‘I’m afraid Elizabeth isn’t down yet. She’s dressing to go out riding. Wouldn’t it be better if you
left a message?’
‘I’d like to see her, if you don’t mind. I’ve brought her the skin of that leopard we shot together.’
Mrs Lackersteen left him standing up in the drawing-room, feeling lumpish and abnormally large as
one does at such times. However, she fetched Elizabeth, taking the opportunity of whispering to her
outside the door: ‘Get rid of that dreadful man as soon as you can, dear. I can’t bear him about the
house at this time of day.’
As Elizabeth entered the room Flory’s heart pounded so violently that a reddish mist passed behind
his eyes. She was wearing a silk shirt and jodhpurs, and she was a little sunburned. Even in his
memory she had never been so beautiful. He quailed; on the instant he was lost–every scrap of his
screwed-up courage had fled. Instead of stepping forward to meet her he actually backed away. There
was a fearful crash behind him; he had upset an occasional table and sent a bowl of zinnias hurding
across the floor.
‘I’m so sorry!’ he exclaimed in horror.
‘Oh, not at all! Please don’t worry about it!’
She helped him to pick up the table, chattering all the while as gaily and easily as though nothing
had happened: ‘You have been away a long time, Mr Flory! You’re quite a stranger! We’ve so
missed you at the Club!’ etc. etc. She was italicising every other word, with that deadly, glittering