"Yet the agent was so absolutely confident, and I have waited three solid months for information."
"Well, your agent made a pretty rotten cast! Your Uncle would be at least ten years my senior—I'm forty-five next June. But natives are no judge of age, you are either young or old, there is no medium; it's like the country itself, which has only night, and day—no dusk. But why go to a native firm at all?"
"Because I'm told, they always have one ear in the bazaar, where everything is known; and Europeans are so cut and dried, so unimaginative, and maddeningly slow."
After a short silence, Major Rochfort got up, and standing squarely before his companion, said:
"Look here, Mallender, I'm most awfully sorry I went for you like that just now; but naturally, when I came across you incognito and being extremely anxious to conceal this little—er—establishment, I thought that by some incredible means Sophy had put you on! Lately, she has been asking questions, and making me devilish nervous. I began to think of anonymous letters, or that in some subtle and unexpected form she smelt a rat!"
Mallender's thoughts flew to the plain middle-aged lady, with a tribe of pet dogs, known to the world as Mrs. Rochfort.
"I can't imagine why you should suspect me," he answered stiffly.
"My dear fellow, when a man's in a deadly funk, he suspects everyone. You will forgive me, won't you, and dine with me to-night, and we'll have a good old jaw?"
At this moment the door opened, and a golden head was thrust in.
"Go away, Mota, run away," said her father, "I am busy now. You'll come, won't you?" to Mallender, "to show there is no ill-feeling, and eat my salt,—as you have done at home?"