"All right, I'll come at eight, I suppose?" said Mallender rising; then he went out to join Anthony in the verandah, and the pair departed together, followed by the eyes of the entire household,—including dog and monkey.
Mallender was in low spirits, he felt keenly disappointed, crestfallen, and dispirited. He had abandoned his best friends, spent a fortnight in squalid misery, dragged out the secret of another man, and all for nothing! He began to fear, that he had engaged in a struggle beyond his powers,—nevertheless he meant to hold on!
Later, he got into a white evening suit, and preceded by Chinna-Sawmy with a lantern, once more presented himself at the big bungalow. He now found it illuminated by many lamps, and was formally received in the gloomy drawing-room by Rochfort, his children and "the Miss,"—wearing a gay spotted muslin, and an obtrusive gold watch, and chain.
Dinner was plain, but excellent; mulligatawny, pomphret, gram-fed mutton, cheese soufflé and fruit. The talk was loud, general, and unembarrassed. The boys were evidently devoted to their parent, and completely free from shyness. Possibly the young lady was a little spoiled; with crimped hair, and dressed in an elaborate white frock, she occupied the place of hostess, and flatly and insistently contradicted her father on more than one occasion. She however was a lovely child, and looked thoroughbred to the tips of her somewhat sticky fingers.
Mallender as he glanced about him, mentally contrasted the present, with the last occasion on which he had been the guest of his host. Then, he had sat at a table loaded with wonderful old silver and hot-house flowers, and was waited on by powdered footmen, in the company of Rochfort's prim English wife, and her titled county neighbours. Now, he was eating curried vegetables, under a slowly moving punkah, attended by black servants, and surrounded by a Madras family—which included a golden-haired imperious hostess, aged nine years.
As she passed her father's chair, dessert being over, Mota said, "You'll come soon, Daddy?" and she bestowed a patronising pat and kiss on the top of his somewhat thin hair. "We want to play spoof, so don't sit talking, talking, smoking, smoking!" and with this command, she vanished.
When the servants had also disappeared, Rochfort said:
"Draw nearer, try that Pondicherry claret, it's very sound, and light up. I want to talk to you, Mallender."
"All right," he replied, helping himself to wine, "go ahead."
"No doubt you are flabbergasted at my double life!—not a Sunday-school example for a young fellow, eh? At home, I'm Major Rochfort, a magistrate, married, no family; a busy man on committees, active in country matters, a preserver of foxes, a chairman at political meetings, a steward at races and balls, and a model husband," he paused, deliberately helped himself to another glass of claret, and then went on: