"
"There, my dear," said the stout lady to her companion, "I warned you
to be prepared for the worst. Bear up; do not make a scene before all
these people. The ways of Providence are just and inscrutable. It is
your own temper that was to blame. You should never have sent the poor
man off to these heathen countries."
Then, turning to me, she added sharply: "I suppose he is embalmed; we
should like to bury him in Essex."
"Embalmed!" I gasped. "Embalmed! Why, the man is in his bath, or was a
few minutes ago."
In another second that pretty young lady who had been addressed was
weeping with her head upon my shoulder.
"Margaret!" exclaimed her companion (she was a kind of heavy aunt), "I
told you not to make a scene in public. Mr. Quatermain, as Mr. Scroope
is alive, would you ask him to be so good as to come here."
Well, I fetched him, half-shaved, and the rest of the business may be
imagined. It is a very fine thing to be a hero with a big H.
Henceforth (thanks to me) that was Charlie Scroope's lot in life.
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