"Oh, well, I cannot exactly credit that. And anyway, I can assure you, she will never have a chance of becoming a princess in India. Joking apart, I'm really anxious about the child. Do you have a good talk to her, Lucy, and try once more, if she will not accept the bird in the hand, and remain with us, for the birds in the bush may be of doubtful plumage."
"I will see what I can do," assented Mrs. Melville, "but in return for your half proverb, I will give you a whole one."
"What may it be?"
"Far off hills are green."
Joselyn Melville made no attempt to argue the question further, but merely resumed the Guardian with a grunt.
In three weeks' time Mr. and Mrs. Melville accompanied their charge to Tilbury, and when they saw the Arabia leave her moorings, waved good-bye to Verona with as much emotion as if she had been their own child.
CHAPTER X
At four o'clock in the afternoon the chief event of the day, the Bombay mail, was due at Rajahpore. The railway station was crammed, not merely with passengers, but idlers and loafers, who attended this train in order to see the people who were going North, and to gather jokes, scraps of gossip, and news. Soldiers were present in considerable force, as well as the local police, and numbers of Eurasians and natives, all assembled with the harmless object of enjoying a slight break in the monotony of their existence.
It was on a platform seething with strange faces, strange costumes and a strange nationality that Verona Chandos alighted and looked about her, with a vague, bewildered stare. She glanced hurriedly around in quest of her father, mother and sisters—her own people. Surely they were somewhere among this crowd! Her heart beat in rapid jerks as she noticed a tall lady in grey and a lad, who were peering into the carriages, evidently in search of friends. Yes—and had discovered them! This soldierly man in riding kit, with erect figure and alert eye—no! A young officer in khaki had come forward and carried him off, and Verona realised with a painful sensation that no one appeared to be awaiting her. The crowd hustled, and pushed, and clamoured by—sweetmeat sellers, fruit hawkers shouted their wares, porters rattled their trucks and excited parties of newly-arrived natives chattered together like a flock of parrots.
At last the scene began to clear and her attention was attracted by one solitary figure—a tall, elderly man, standing aloof in the background. In spite of a shabby sun hat and a suit of shrivelled white drill he had the unmistakable appearance of a gentleman. His features were finely cut, he wore a grizzled moustache, but the face was marked by that indefinable expression presented by life's failures, and his air was timid, even apologetic, as if he felt that he was an intruder in the throng.