"You are right," she answered with a coquettish simper. "I do like a show. I did all the plays before I came out."
"And we have nothing to offer you but snake-charmers, magic wallahs, and fortune-tellers. I believe there is one in camp now, a renowned Fakir who lives in this part of the world; his fame has travelled to Agra."
"Oh, Mr. Lindsay, do, do send for him," pleaded Miss Cuffe.
"But I warn you that he is not pretty to look at; he generally prophesies evil things, and is, as a rule, under the influence of Bhang."
"I don't care in the least," she cried recklessly. "Do—do send for him. What do you say, Mrs. Gascoigne and Mrs. Gordon?" appealing to them.
"My fortune is told," replied Mrs. Gordon. "Fate cannot harm me; but have the Fakir by all means, if Mr. Lindsay can persuade him to appear."
In another moment two messengers had been despatched in search of the soothsayer. Miss Cuffe resolved to make the most of the brilliant opportunity of cultivating Mr. Lindsay, the popular collector, who was said to be next heir to seven thousand a year. The best way to interest him, thought the shrewd little person, is to talk of his district and his work.
"I am so ignorant, Mr. Lindsay," she remarked pathetically; "only just two months in India. Do tell me what all the people round here," waving her plump hands, "believe in?"
"What an immense question!" he exclaimed. "Do you mean the peasants?"
She nodded her head with an emphasis that was impressive, although all the time she was neither thinking nor caring about the peasants, but reflecting that here was a providential occasion for her to cement an acquaintance with this charming and eligible parti; the coast was clear from rivals; there was no one to absorb his devotion and claim his attention but two stupid married ladies, who had been in camp for weeks—and of whom he must be so tired.