" Moreover, he would have stood more at ease if the whole of
Therford had not been overrun with dogs. He scorned to complain, and
I knew him too well to do so for him; but it was a strain on his
self-command to have them all smelling about his legs, and wanting to
mumble the lion skin, especially Hippo's great bloodhound, Kirby, as
big as a calf, who did once make him start by thrusting his long cold
nose into his hand. Hippo laughed, but Harold could do nothing but
force out a smile.
And I always saw the disgusted and bored expression most prominently
in her performance, which at the best could never have given the
grandeur of the pose she made him take, with the lion skin over his
shoulder, and the arrows and bow in his hand. He muttered that a
rifle would be more rational, and that he could hold it better, but
withdrew the protest when he found that Hippo was ready to implore
him to teach her to shoot with pistol, rifle--anything.
"Your brother can show you. You've only to fire at a mark," was all
that could be got out of him.
Nor would he be entrapped into a beneficent talk. His great talent
for silence served him well, and though I told him afterwards that he
had not done Hippo justice--for she honestly wanted an opening for
being useful--he was not mollified. "I don't like tongue," was all
he further said of her.
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