"At your old games, I take
it. You've filled England with hardy perennials and now you're starting on
Europe. Great field for you. You'll want a pretty big trowel, though. A
wheelbarrow might be handy, I should have said."
Senhouse fired. "I've been planting the Black Forest, you see. Great
games. They gave me a free hand, and ten thousand marks a year to spend.
I've done some rather showy things. Now I want to go to Tibet."
The other's attention had wandered. "I saw you come on board," he said. "I
watched you play the Squire of Dames to a rather pretty woman whom I
happen to know. She was a Mrs. Germain in those days."
"She still calls herself so," Senhouse said. He was staring straight
before him out to sea. The steamer was under way.
"Married a queer old file in Berkshire, who died worth a plum. Goodish
time ago. They called him Fowls, or Fowls of the Air. So she's still a
widow, eh?"
Senhouse nodded. "She's his widow." Then he asked, "You know her? You
might go and amuse her. I can't, because of these bonds." He exhibited his
sockless feet with a cheerful grin.
"Oh, I shall, you know," he was assured. "You're not dressy enough for
Mrs. Germain. She'd never stand it.
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