Mr. Brande was surveying his wife with a severely judicial expression; it relaxed as she spoke of their only child, buried far away, under a tamarind tree, on the borders of Nepaul.
Yes, their little Annie would have been five and twenty had she lived, and doubtless as lovely as Sally Batt, who had turned his head, mitigated his success, and whom he rarely repented of having married.
“Your sister has three girls,” she continued, “and she is badly off. What is the pension of a colonel’s widow? Why, less than some folks give their cooks.”
“It is not considerable, certainly, and Carrie finds it hard enough to make both ends meet; she never was much of a manager. But, Sally, a girl is a great responsibility, and you are not accustomed to young people.”
“No; but I can learn to study them, for I’m fond of them. Say ‘Yes,’ Pel, and I’ll write. We will pay her passage, of course, and I’ll meet her myself at Allahabad.”
Mr. Brande tossed the end of his cigarette into the fire, fixed his eye-glass firmly in his eye, and contemplated his wife in silence. At last he said—
“May I ask what has put this idea into your head all of a sudden?”
“It’s not—exactly—sudden,” she stammered; “I’ve often a sort of lonely feel. But I must truthfully say that I never thought of your niece till to-day, when I heard that Mrs. Langrishe is getting up one of hers from Calcutta.”
Mr. Brande jerked the glass hastily on to his waistcoat, and gave a peculiarly long whistle.
“I see! And you are not going to be beaten by Mrs. Langrishe—you mean to run an opposition girl, and try which will have the best dresses, the most partners, and be married first? No, no, Sally! I utterly refuse to lend myself to such a scheme, or to allow one of Carrie’s daughters to enter for that sort of competition.” And he crossed his legs, and took another cigarette.