. . but in winter . . . at that elevation . . ."
"Can't expect much, eh?" said the lieutenant, cutting in with
the same sudden skill. "No, of course not. That's all right,
Montmorency. There can't be any more difficulties," and he put
his hand on the handle of the door.
"I think," said Rupert Grant, with a satanic suavity, "that Mr
Montmorency has something further to say to you, lieutenant."
"Only," said the house-agent, in desperation, "what about the
birds?"
"I beg your pardon," said Rupert, in a general blank.
"What about the birds?" said the house-agent doggedly.
Basil, who had remained throughout the procedings in a state of
Napoleonic calm, which might be more accurately described as a
state of Napoleonic stupidity, suddenly lifted his leonine head.
"Before you go, Lieutenant Keith," he said. "Come now. Really,
what about the birds?"
"I'll take care of them," said Lieutenant Keith, still with his
long back turned to us; "they shan't suffer."
"Thank you, sir, thank you," cried the incomprehensible
house-agent, with an air of ecstasy. "You'll excuse my concern,
sir. You know I'm wild on wild animals. I'm as wild as any of
them on that. Thank you, sir. But there's another thing. . ."
The lieutenant, with his back turned to us, exploded with an
indescribable laugh and swung round to face us.
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