Poor George, he had been nerving himself for this terrible interview for days, and the reality proved more than the anticipation.
“Yes, here you are, I see,” and he kissed her. “I hope you have had a good passage?”
“Delightful, but what dreadfully short notice you gave me, and”—as if it had only just struck her—“how desperately ill you are looking. Were you afraid that I would not come?”
“I have had a very bad go of fever,” he answered evasively. “And nothing knocks one over so quickly. I shall soon be all right.”
“And how do you think I am looking?” she enquired coquettishly.
“Prettier than ever,” he replied with promptitude, as he gazed dispassionately at his future wife—the wife that fate and Mrs. Redmond had sent him. She was really remarkably handsome, and appeared to be in the highest spirits, and utterly unconscious of her mother’s baseness.
“I am charmed with India so far!” she said, “with the funny Parsees with their coal-scuttle hats, and the brown natives, the warm atmosphere, the big buildings, the Portuguese waiters, the hotel and the hawkers, in fact, with everything.”
“I am very glad that India has made a good impression on you at first sight, and I hope you may never have any occasion to change your mind. I have got everything ready for you at Mangobad, and I think you will like your future home.”
“I am certain I shall. Oh, George, you don’t know how pleased I was to get your letter. How sly you were all along. I never could be quite sure that you cared for me, and I was very miserable; that dreadful life at Noone was killing me by inches. Here we have plenty of sun, and life and colour, and society and constant change. How happy we shall be!”
“I hope so, with all my heart,” he answered gravely.