Although Mallender sat with his writing case open before him, his eyes wandered over the wide prospect commanded by the bungalow. What a picture of tragic solitude! In the foreground a mass of overgrown ruins, beyond these, the sun-baked plain, with its harsh orange soil, and far-away range of dim blue hills,—the whole a scene of ardent melancholy. His thoughts now turned to his own affairs, and his reflections were gloomy; he realised that his impulsive desire for results, had driven him to waste time and energies in hopeless directions,—of which the present situation was a specimen! Why, why, had fate singled him out for this adventure? He was not one inch "forrader" than months ago when full of high hopes he had embarked in Tilbury Docks. Well, he must pull himself together, decide upon a plan of action, and get out of this God-forsaken place as soon as possible: drawing the paper towards him, he began to write. Just at this moment, a visitor appeared between the stone piers of entrance to the little compound; a sturdy broad-shouldered man of thirty, dressed in kharki. He had a pleasant clean-shaven face, a square chin, and resolute jaw; as he took off his topee, he displayed a crop of thick brown hair, cut "en brosse."
"I say," he began rather awkwardly, "you'll excuse me I hope, but my father, General Beamish, heard of your arrival—of course everything is known in this place," and he grinned, "and that you were a British officer; so he sent me over to ask if you would be so good as to call and see him?"
"I shall be delighted," declared Mallender, in his clear, high-bred voice, "but I must not go under false pretences, I'm no longer in the service."
"That does not matter a button—you've been in it, and the old man craves for a talk with one of his own profession. Although he is ninety-five, he is still drawing the pension of a Major-General. I expect the authorities are pretty sick! Eh?"
"Won't you sit down?" said Mallender, bringing forward a chair. "No doubt your father has seen a lot of service?"
"Oh, yes, volunteered for every campaign or scrap, that was going in his day. He is feeble on his pins, and a bit deaf, but his mind is as clear as ever. He likes to talk of old times, when he is in the humour, and he loves anything to do with soldiers. He doesn't come across many soldier-men here, as you may suppose, and he is mad keen on seeing you."
"All right—when shall I go over?"
"About six, when he is rested after his drive, and my mother says, will you stay to supper?"
"Thank you, I shall be delighted."
"You'll find Wellunga a mighty weird sort of billet," resumed the visitor, "not much of a field for your camera. Your rum little chokra told me you were a photographer."