There was only one thing for him to say and he said it cordially, mentally damning himself for forgetting that Rosalie was to be invited.
"I'll write to them both this morning," concluded Geraldine.

"Of course poor Jack Dysart is out of the question." "A little," he said mildly.

And, furious with himself, he rose as she stood up, and followed her into the armory, her cool little hand trailing and just touching his.
For half an hour they prowled about, examining Winchesters, Stevens, Maenlichers--every make and pattern of rifle and fowling-piece was represented in Scott's collection.
"Odd, isn't it, that he never shoots," mused Duane, lifting out a superb weapon from the rack behind the glass doors.

"This seems to be one of those murderous, low trajectory pieces that fires a sort of brassy shot which is still rising when it's a mile beyond the bunker.

Now, sweetheart, if you've a heavy suit of ancient armour which I can crawl into, I'll defy any boar that roots for mast on Cloudy Mountain." It was great fun for Geraldine to lay out their equipment in two neat piles; a rifle apiece with cases and bandoliers; cartridges, two hunting-knives with leather sheaths, shooting hoods and coats; and timberjack's boots for her lover, moccasins for her; a pair of heavy sweaters for each, and woollen mitts, fashioned to leave the trigger finger free.
Beside these she laid two fur-lined overcoats, and backed away in naive admiration at her industry.
"Wonderful, wonderful," he said.