As they toiled upwards, the day grew perceptibly warmer, the ascent steeper. At twelve o’clock they halted by a mountain stream under some evergreen oaks, and there found an excellent repast awaiting them. Mrs. Brande’s portly cook had girded up his loins, and hastened by short cuts and by-paths, and now lay in ambush with this welcome repast of fowl, cold pie, rolls and coffee; claret and hock were cooling in a neighbouring stream.
There was some satisfaction in being escort to Mrs. Brande, who sat on a box, presiding over the table-cloth, and looking the embodiment of gratified hospitality. When the meal had come to an end and the men were smoking, she said—
“What’s that in your dandy, Honor? I see you taking as much care of it as if it was some great treasure; not your new hats, I hope?” in a tone of real concern.
“No, aunt; it is my violin—a much more important affair.”
“Nonsense, child! Why did you not leave it with the heavy baggage?”
“Because it might have been smashed.”
“Well, if it was, it could be mended. We have a very clever Maistry carpenter at Shirani. I often give him little jobs. My butler—a Goanese—has a fiddle, too, and of an evening I hear him giving the other servants a benefit.”
“Perhaps he and I may play duets,” remarked Honor, demurely.
“My dear child!” with a deeply horrified air. “How can you talk in such a wild way? Captain Waring is shocked—ain’t you, captain?”
“Dreadfully scandalized; and I will only condone the outrage to my feelings on one condition, that Miss Gordon plays us a solo. Will you, Miss Gordon? This is the hour and the place.”