Jervoise.—Tar-brush! Not an ounce. You young fellows talk as though the man was doing the girl an honour in marrying her. You're all too conceited—nothing's good enough for you.
Blayne.—Not even an empty Club, a dam' bad dinner at the Judge's, and a Station as sickly as a hospital. You're quite right. We're a set of Sybarites.
Doone.—Luxurious dogs, wallowing in
Curtiss.—Prickly heat between the shoulders. I'm covered with it. Let's hope Beora will be cooler.
Blayne.—Whew! Are you ordered into camp, too? I thought the Gunners had a clean cholera sheet.
Curtiss.—No, worse luck. Two cases yesterday—one died—and if we have a third, out we go. Is there any shooting at Beora, Doone?
Doone.—The country's under water, except the patch by the Grand Trunk Road. I was there yesterday, looking at a dam, and came across four poor devils of natives in their last stage. It's rather bad from here to Kuchara.
Curtiss.—Then we're pretty certain to have a heavy attack. Heigho! I shouldn't mind changing places with Gaddy for a while. 'Sport with Amaryllis in the shade of the Town Hall, and all that. Oh, why doesn't somebody come and marry me, instead of letting me go into cholera-camp?
Mackesy.—Give us a little peace. If they followed you here I'd resign—on moral grounds.
Curtiss.—You irreclaimable ruffian! You'll stand me another drink for that. Blayne, what will you take? Mackesy is fined—on moral grounds. Doone, have you any preference?
Doone.—Small glass Kummel, please. Excellent carminative, these days. Anthony told me so.
Mackesy (signing voucher for four drinks).—Most unfair punishment. I only thought of Curtiss as Actæon being chevied round the billiard-tables by the nymphs of Diana.
