“It will reveal all your indiscretions one of these days, Pedler.”
“My dear Race,” I said, “I venture to suggest that I am not quite the fool you think me. I may commit indiscretions, but I don’t write them down in black and white. After my death, my executors will know my opinion of a great many people, but I doubt if they will find anything to add or detract from their opinion of me . A diary is useful for recording the idiosyncrasies of other people—but not one’s own.”
“There is such a thing as unconscious self-revelation, though.”
“In the eyes of the psychoanalyst, all things are vile,” I replied sententiously.
“You must have had a very interesting life, Colonel Race?” said Miss Beddingfeld, gazing at him with wide, starry eyes.
That’s how they do it, these girls! Othello charmed Desdemona by telling her stories, but, oh, didn’t Desdemona charm Othello by the way she listened?
Anyway, the girl set Race off all right. He began to tell lion stories. A man who has shot lions in large quantities has an unfair advantage over other men. It seemed to me that it was time I, too, told a lion story. One of a more sprightly character.
“By the way,” I remarked, “that reminds me of a rather exciting tale I heard. A friend of mine was out on a shooting trip somewhere in East Africa. One night he came out of his tent for some reason, and was startled by a low growl. He turned sharply and saw a lion crouching to spring. He had left his rifle in the tent. Quick as thought, he ducked, and the lion sprang right over his head. Annoyed at having missed him, the animal growled and prepared to spring again. Again he ducked, and again the lion sprang right over him. This happened a third time, but by