"Good morning again, Philip," she said; then glancing at her friend, she continued, "I declare, you two are like a couple of conspirators—where is the dark lantern? Who is to be the victim?"
"You are," was Mrs. Gordon's unexpected reply. "We are meditating carrying you off into camp for six weeks."
"How delightful—there's nothing I shall enjoy so much. Are you going to invite Philip?" glancing at him.
"I don't think I can get away," he stammered—"at least, not for more than a couple of days at a time."
"I always had an idea that there was next to no work in India; that it was all racing and polo, and dancing and flirting."
"Well, my dear child, you see you were wrong," said Mrs. Gordon. "Who is the note from, my dear?"
"Only a line from Miss Lennox, to say that she and her sister regret that they cannot come over to have a game of tennis this evening—such a funny stiff little note," and she tendered it to her hostess between two fingers, whilst Mrs. Gordon's and Major Gascoigne's eyes met in a glance of quick significance.
As Major Gascoigne was walking home across the parade-ground, a pony-carriage and pair of fat Pegu ponies drew up on the road, and awaited him. Then a lady's head was poked out from under the hood, and a smiling face, crowned by an Ellwood helmet, said:
"So pleased to see you back again."