He would come swiftly to her aid, she knew it. “—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste. The cultivated indifference, which was part of the armour of his little world fell away from him. "I dare not, Rowland," she answered. In the heart of the jungle the dog had his private muck baths. "This tongue looks remarkably nice," he added, slicing off an immense wedge, "excuse me—ho! ho!" "You make yourself at home, I perceive," observed Kneebone, with a look of ineffable disgust.
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