"Like mother, like daughter! Oh, dear child, do forgive me! I don't mean to be horrid!"
"I intend to marry Brian," continued Verona, in a firm voice, "who, when I was a nobody, treated me like a Princess—and loved me for myself."
"And you will come out here once more, to be the wife of a police wallah?"
"Yes."
"And since he really is not raving mad, I suppose he is to travel to Bombay—and see us off?"
"Yes, Aunt Liz, I suppose so."
Mrs. Lepell put her arm round the girl's neck and kissed her affectionately. "Of course, dear—speaking unofficially—I am delighted, and though I say it, who am his own aunt, few girls are in my opinion good enough for Brian. You are; and I should be entirely happy, only for thinking of your relations. Your grandfather so anxious to claim you—your aunt; if I only——"
"If you only say another word, Aunt Liz," interrupted Verona, "I declare I shall take a three months' return ticket to Bombay."
CHAPTER XLIV
It was five o'clock on a June evening; a day of tropical heat had almost prostrated London, and many people were in the Park, strolling slowly to and fro, or sitting on penny chairs, watching the crowds near the Achilles statue. Among these lookers-on were Sir Horace Haig and his nephew, recently returned from India on sick leave. Sir Horace's little blue eyes peered forth from beneath their shaggy brows, with an even fiercer intentness than of old, as he leant on his cane, and delivered criticisms on those unfortunates who passed along the surrounding brown grass.