“She will send the box back,” said I.  “Such is the Englishwoman.  She will take a pair of tiger’s ears that nearly cost you your life, and she would rather die than accept the bit of silver in which you enclose them, without the ‘permission of her uncle.’”

“I do not care,” he said, “so long as she keeps the ears.  But unless I am much mistaken, she will keep the box too.  She is not like other Englishwomen in the least.”

I was not sure of that.  We had some tea in the door of our tent, and Isaacs seemed hungry and thirsty, as well he might be.  Now that he was refreshed by bathing and the offices of the camp barber, he looked much as usual, save that the extreme paleness I had noticed when he came in had given place to a faint flush beneath the olive, probably due to his excitement, the danger being past.  As we sat there, the rest of the party, who had slept rather later than usual after their fatigues of the previous day, came out one by one and stood around the dead tiger, wondering at the tale told by the delighted ryot, who squatted at the beast’s head to relate the adventure to all comers.  We could see the group from where we sat, in the shadow of the connat, and the different expressions of the men as they came out.  The little collector of Pegnugger measured and measured again; Mr. Ghyrkins stood with his hands in his coat pockets and his legs apart, then going to the other side he took up the same position again.  Lord Steepleton Kildare sauntered round and twirled his big moustache, saying nothing the while, but looking rather serious.  John Westonhaugh, who seemed to be the artistic genius of the party, sent for a chair and made his servant hold an umbrella over him while he sketched the animal in his notebook, and presently his sister came out, a big bunch of roses in her belt, and a broad hat half hiding her face, and looked at the tiger and then round the party quickly, searching for Isaacs.  In her hand she held a little package wrapped in white tissue paper.  I strolled up to the group, leaving Isaacs in his tent.  I thought I might as well play innocence.

“Of course,” I remarked, “those fellows have bagged his ears as usual.”

“They never omit that,” said Ghyrkins.

“Oh no, uncle,” broke in Miss Westonhaugh, “he gave them to me!”

“Who?” asked Ghyrkins, opening his little eyes wide.

“Mr. Isaacs.  Did not he kill the tiger?  He sent me the ears in a little silver box.  Here it is—­the box, I mean.  I am going to give it back to him, of course.”

“How did Mr. Isaacs know you wanted them?” asked her uncle, getting red in the face.

“Why, we were talking about them last night before dinner, and he promised that if he shot a tiger to-day he would give me the ears.”  Mr. Ghyrkins was redder and redder in the morning sun.  There was a storm of some kind brewing.  We were collected together on the other side of the dead tiger and exchanged all kinds of spontaneous civilities and remarks, not wishing to witness Mr. Ghyrkins’ wrath, nor to go away too suddenly.  I heard the conversation, however, for the old gentleman made no pretence of lowering his voice.