“And do you mean to say you let him go off like that?  He must have been out all night.  That beast of a nigger says so.  On foot, too.  I say on foot!  Do you know what you are talking about?  Eh?  Shooting tigers on foot?  What?  Eh?  Might have been killed as easily as not!  And then what would you have said?  Eh?  What?  Upon my soul!  You girls from home have no more hearts than a parcel of old Juggernauts!” Ghyrkins was now furious.  We edged away towards the dining-tent, making a great talk about the terrible heat of the sun in the morning.  I caught the beginning of Miss Westonhaugh’s answer.  She had hardly appreciated the situation yet, and probably thought her uncle was joking, but she spoke very coldly, being properly annoyed at his talking in such a way.

“You cannot suppose for a moment that I meant him to go,” I heard her say, and something else followed in a lower tone.  We then went into the dining-tent.

“Now look here, Katharine,” Mr. Ghyrkins’ irate voice rang across the open space, “if any young woman asked me——­” John Westonhaugh had risen from his chair and apparently interrupted his uncle.  Miss Westonhaugh walked slowly to her tent, while her male relations remained talking.  I thought Isaacs had shown some foresight in not taking part in the morning discussion.  The two men went into their tents together and the dead tiger lay alone in the grass, the sun rising higher and higher, pouring down his burning rays on man and beast and green thing.  And soon the shikarries came with a small elephant and dragged the carcass away to be skinned and cut up.  Kildare and the collector said they would go and shoot some small game for dinner.  Isaacs, I supposed, was sleeping, and I was alone in the dining-tent.  I shouted for Kiramat Ali and sent for books, paper, and pens, and a hookah, resolved to have a quiet morning to myself, since it was clear we were not going out to-day.  I saw Ghyrkins’ servant enter his tent with bottles and ice, and I suspected the old fellow was going to cool his wrath with a “peg,” and would be asleep most of the morning.  John would take a peg too, but he would not sleep in consequence, being of Bombay, iron-headed and spirit-proof.  So I read on and wrote, and was happy, for I like the heat of the noon-day and the buzzing of the flies, and the smell of the parched grass, being southern born.

About twelve o’clock, when I was beginning to think I had done enough work for one day, I saw Miss Westonhaugh’s native maid come out of her mistress’s tent and survey the landscape, shading her eyes with her hand.  She was dressed, of course, in spotless white drapery, and there were heavy anklets on her feet and bangles of silver on her wrist.  She seemed satisfied by her inspection and went in again, returning presently with Miss Westonhaugh and a large package of work and novels and letter-writing materials.  They came straight to where I was sitting under the airy tent where we dined, and Miss Westonhaugh established herself at one side of the table at the end of which I was writing.