"Incognito, of course," she added impressively, "not as a young swell, with guns and servants, searching for a lost relation. That would bring you scores of bogus uncles; a keen stealthy tracking in an humble fashion, travelling intermediate class, and pretending to work for your daily bread, is your best line."
"Yes," he agreed, "as soon as I see a glimmer I'll start in rags, if necessary."
Nancy Brander critically considered her companion, from his glossy dark hair, to his neat brown boots, and softly repeated the words:
"Rags! You don't even know what they are! It's lucky you're searching for a man! to find a woman out here, would be absolutely hopeless."
"Oh—a woman—I dare say!"
"I see," she nodded her head, "in her case, you would not bother! You are not really a ladies' man!"
"Depends on the lady," he answered with a laugh.
"Well, Cousin Geoffrey, whatever you do, don't go and marry your grandmother!" was her somewhat enigmatic advice. "I shall write to Tom to-night, and tell him to dredge his memory, and try if he can recall any eccentric Englishmen, who live out here, and lie low; not loafers, but others who have a little money, and their own very particular reasons for not returning home; or who simply worship the East, for being the East, and cannot tear themselves away from the sun. Remember," she continued impressively, "that you must have some excuse for your rambling. Suppose you give out that you are writing a good popular book on the common, or garden, insects of India—including white ants, and other pouchees, how would that be?"
"Do I look like a man who could write a book?" cried Mallender, jumping to his feet, and standing before her.
"No, I cannot say you do; you look more like somebody musical. How would you like to go round with a gramophone, on a little cart?"