"Of yourself, dear old chap. Not of the lady. She's the fool, not you.
Poor old Gilly Forrester slaves here to send her junketing in Japan,
Kashmir, Ceylon, Home. What Chantel said--well, between the two of us,
I'm afraid he's right. It's a pity."

Heywood paused, frowning.

"A pity, too, this quarrel. So precious few of us, and trouble ahead.
The natives lashing themselves into a state of mind, or being lashed.
The least spark--Rough work ahead, and here we are at swords' points."

"And the joke is," Rudolph added quietly, "I do not know a sword's point
from a handle."

Heywood turned, glowered, and twice failed to speak.

"Rudie--old boy," he stammered, "that man--Preposterous! Why, it's plain
murder!"

Rudolph stared straight ahead, without hope, without illusions, facing
the haggard light of morning. A few weeks ago he might have wept; but
now his laugh, short and humorous, was worthy of his companion.

"I do not care, more," he answered. "Luck, so called I it, when I
escaped the militar' service. Ho ho! Luck, to pass into the _Ersatz!_--I
do not care, now. I cannot believe, even cannot I fight.
Worthless--dreamer! My deserts. It's a good way out."