"And here," resumed Blanche, now waving forward her offspring, "is your dear little nephew, Chandos Montagu Jones; he is ten weeks old to-day. Kiss your new auntie, sweetie king."
From this embrace there was of course no escape; for the ayah promptly handed the child to Verona with an air of gratified relief. If Verona had been informed that it was the woman's own infant, she would have accepted the announcement without demur, the little thing was so dark; its olive face was bright and cheery, and she dandled it, kissed it, and carried it about with a secret presentiment that she would like it better than either of its parents!
"Well, now there is so much I want to know," began Blanche, as she threw herself into a chair; "when did she come?" nodding at Verona, "for we all went to the train and could not see her anywhere. We took the De Castros, and the Jenkins, and Mr. Bott, and those two young fellows from the cantonment office. Oh, my! they were all dying to get the first sight of Verona, and she was not there. She must have come by the four o'clock, and we went to the half-past two."
"Dios!" suddenly interrupting herself with a loud shriek, for here entered, with mincing and self-conscious gait, Dominga and Pussy, attired in two of Verona's most elegant casino costumes. The former in pale green (her particular colour), veiled with white lace, and garnished with black velvet; the latter, in a superb hand-painted muslin. They wore hats and ruffles to correspond, and an air of overwhelming complacency.
"Why, why, what is this, what is this?" screamed Blanche, backing towards the verandah with uplifted hands and an expression of awe and bewilderment.
Without delay it was volubly explained to her by three voices, all gabbling together, that these were the garments of Verona, who had more smart clothes than the room could hold. Then Dominga and Pussy sat down, each on a separate sofa, spread out their skirts, fanned themselves languidly, and proceeded to imagine that they were fine ladies. Gradually Blanche's gaze of awed admiration faded into a scowl of envy.
Montagu stared and sniggered, and twirled his moustache, whilst Verona stood in the background, holding the little dark child, who apparently liked her, and clung to her neck like a very crab.
"Oh, but you shall have your share, too!" said Dominga, in a soothing tone, as she recognised the storm cone—for Blanche had inherited her mother's temper.
"There is a lovely toque for you, and such a dress piece of white alpaca, and you shall have one of my parasols. There now!"
"Parasol, cha—a—h" (native expression of scorn)—"you put me off like that! Why shouldn't I have a smart dress? How sly and greedy you all are, keeping the grand things to yourselves—just like pigs. One thing you forget," as she straightened herself and glared from Dominga to Pussy, then back from Pussy to Dominga, "I am the eldest!"