"I don't know; he rides splendidly, they say."
"He won't have a stick in his hand for many a day—if ever. I had better prepare you, and tell you that this crack in the back of his head may have an effect on the brain. He has had an uncommonly narrow squeak. Go on with the remedies, and I'll come again in two days." Then in another voice, he added, "I say, Mrs. Beamish, what a rum place you live in! My chauffeur had never heard of it, no more had I!"
"Yes, but it suits the old General—he prefers to be out of the world."
"Ah—'the world forgetting, by the world forgot!'"
"Oh, yes, we don't bother about society. Now, you must come and have some tiffin," added Mrs. Beamish hospitably. "It's all ready. I'm sorry you won't see my husband,—he is asleep."
"A great age, I understand."
"Yes, ninety-five next birthday."
"Well, ma'am, that speaks volumes for our much-abused Indian climate, doesn't it?"
"That is true, but then the General has a fine constitution, and a good conscience," declared his wife, with dignified complacency.
Thanks to the skilled nursing of Mrs. Beamish and Anthony's faithful attendance, Mallender, by slow degrees, crept back to this world—men in the prime and vigour of their youth do not die easily.—At first, his memory appeared to be a mere glimmering of things half seen, he took no interest in life, and was curiously lethargic.