“Where are you off to?” inquired the lady imperiously.
“Only to the station. We are getting up grand theatricals; and in spite of coolies, and messages, and furious letters, none of our properties have been forwarded, and I began to suspect that the Baboo might be having a play of his own, and I am going down to look him up. Am I not energetic? Don’t I deserve a vote of public thanks?”
“Pooh! Your journey is nothing,” cried Mrs. Brande, with great scorn. “Why, I’ve been to Allahabad, where the thermometer is 95° in the shade.”
“Yes, down in all the heat, and for a far more worthy object,” glancing at Honor. “You may rely on me, I shall see that you are recommended for a D.S.O.”
“What an impudent boy you are!” retorted the matron; and half turning her head, she said to her companion, “Honor, this is Mr. Joy—he is quite mad. Mr. Joy, this is my niece, Miss Gordon, just out from England” (her invariable formula).
Mr. Joy swept off his topee to his saddle-bow.
“And what’s the news?” continued Mrs. Brande. “Has Mrs. Langrishe’s niece come up?” she asked peremptorily.
“Yes, arrived two days ago—the early bird, you see,” he added, with a malicious twinkle of his little eyes.
“I don’t see; and every one knows that the worm was a fool. What is she like?”
“Like a fairy, and dances to match,” replied Mr. Joy, with enthusiasm.