"Mother has so many engagements; she is going to buy another horse; one was enough for me, but she never grudges anything for Dominga; every one knows thatt. Now, Verona, do you come along; we are going to the railway tennis ground, and Mr. Bott wants you to play with him."
Mr. Bott, a stout dark man, was the chief guest—and perfectly alive to his own importance. As Blanche pulled her sister's sleeve, she whispered, with a smothered giggle:
"Five hundred rupees a month! He is baby's godfather, but you may marry him if you like!" and she pushed Verona before her.
What an afternoon it had been—of pretension and make-believe, of civil speeches and staring eyes, of long whispers and sidelong looks, and of warm invitations, and strokings and flattery and painfully sustained effort.
Verona was thankful when she and Pussy were at last ushered to the overworked victoria and driven home along the flat, white road to the sequestered bungalow in Manora; which now appeared to the miserable pleasure-goer a veritable harbour of refuge.
The morning succeeding this dissipation, found Verona lying on her bed racked with a headache and fever; she was unable to rise, and lay prone, fervently hoping that she was going to be very ill and die. In the midst of these miserable reflections, Pussy burst in to announce:
"Rona, this is Sunday; we cannot all fit into the victoria, but you and Dominga and mother must go to the cantonment church; there is a grand parade—you will see the officers!"
"I cannot stir," protested Verona; "my head aches so dreadfully."
"Ah," coming over and taking her hand, "so you have fever. Now I wonder how you got thatt?" (By midnight rambling on the river banks when the air was full of mist and malaria.)
For two long days Verona remained in her room, her head burning, her bones racked with pain. She was driven nearly distraught by affectionate Pussy's well-meant attendance and tireless chatter, by Dominga, who sat upon the bed and poured forth a stream of questions (questions respecting dress, deportment, hair-dressing, letter-writing, and the manners and customs of society at home); by Nicky, whose carpentering was close at hand, and by the ceaseless barking of the Trotters' pariah.