"He was my Uncle," announced the stranger, whose hopes were once more kindled.
"Mallender, this is my wife, Sally," he called to someone who had entered, "here is Captain Mallender; I knew his Uncle long ago."
The visitor turned and bowed, but Mrs. Beamish put out a large useful-looking hand, and gave him a motherly smile. "Motherly" was the adjective that best expressed Sally Beamish! a woman of over fifty, with a pulpy corsetless figure, a kind sensible face, a little short nose, a pair of sympathetic eyes, a drab complexion. Her abundant brown hair was combed over her ears and gathered into a tight knot, she wore a stuff skirt, a loose white jacket fastened by a magnificent diamond brooch, and berlin wool slippers.
"You will take your supper with us," she said; her accent was common, but her face radiated benevolence. "It is the Beauforts' evening, but that's no matter: and you must come over to us whenever you find it dull. It is dull alone. Now I am going to leave you, to have a chat with the General." Then suddenly dropping her voice, "He was just crazy to see you,—let the old man talk, it's so good for him, and mind, he don't like to be interrupted."
"What's she saying? What's she saying?" demanded her husband, suspiciously. His eyes had been watching her moving lips.
"That she is leaving me to have a good old talk with you, sir," explained Mallender, as the purdah swung behind a solid form.
"A good woman, a good woman! My third wife, country born, country bred, no country blood—just an apothecary's daughter, and a trained nurse; but I did not marry her for that. No, no. Come now, young fellow, draw your chair nearer, for I want to question you about England, and the Army, and many other things."
"All right, sir, but I left the Army this time last year."
"And you could desert the colours, you a fine, strong young man?" and he considered his visitor with reproachful blue eyes.
"I had no choice, sir," replied Mallender. "I was terribly sorry to go. I hate being out of the Service."