fashion of those in love.

Well, Charles Scroope turned up in Durban, which was but a poor place
then, and there we met in the bar of the Royal Hotel.

"If you want to kill big game," I heard some one say, who it was I
really forget, "there's the man to show you how to do it--Hunter
Quatermain; the best shot in Africa and one of the finest fellows,
too."

I sat still, smoking my pipe and pretending to hear nothing. It is
awkward to listen to oneself being praised, and I was always a shy
man.

Then after a whispered colloquy Mr. Scroope was brought forward and
introduced to me. I bowed as nicely as I could and ran my eye over
him. He was a tall young man with dark eyes and a rather romantic
aspect (that was due to his love affair), but I came to the conclusion
that I liked the cut of his jib. When he spoke, that conclusion was
affirmed. I always think there is a great deal in a voice; personally,
I judge by it almost as much as by the face. This voice was
particularly pleasant and sympathetic, though there was nothing very
original or striking in the words by which it was, so to speak,
introduced to me. These were:

"How do you do, sir. Will you have a split?"

I answered that I never drank spirits in the daytime, or at least not
often, but that I should be pleased to take a small bottle of beer.