Lost trumpet

202
THE LOST TRUMPET
“Statue you might be, but never in the diminu¬
tive.”
“Am I so gargantuan, then ?”
Quaritch had sat beside us. He turned round
eagerly, apparently having overheard the passage
between us.
“Colonel Saloney’s right, Princess. You’ve got a
good skeleton.”
Pelagueya stared at him a moment, brows upraised.
For answer the boy surveyed her from head to foot,
consideringly. Shook his head.
“Aphrodite mostly, of course. But too good
skeletal structure for that. Puzzle a sculptor a bit
if you were stripped. The Hera or Diana touch—I’m
not sure which.”
Pelagueya’s eyes twinkled. She made him a mock
curtsey from the depths of her chair.
“If ever I’m reduced to selling my skeleton, Mr.
Quaritch ”
He coloured furiously, hurtly. “I was serious.”
So he had been. Pelagueya’s mockery lingered
doubtfully about her lips. I said :
* Our young friend is a professional uncouth.
When he enters heaven he will doubtlessly poke
St. Peter in the ribs and tell him he keeps marvel¬
lously well-fleshed for an old man.”
“Whereas Anton will never enter the gates at all,
Mr. Quaritch. He will linger there with Peter,
politely hazarding the opinion that no great profit
would come from entering heaven and that, on the
whole, he had best search out Nirvana in order that