“My dear, I’m afraid you must give me a more exact description. I know so many stupid young men,” rejoined Mr. Brande in his dryest manner.
At this moment, Nuddoo, the superb, stalked in and said with a salaam—
“The Mem Sahib in other room, offers half room to our Miss Sahib.”
“There you are, Honor!” cried her uncle gleefully: thinking of the certain cold he had so narrowly escaped.
“But who is the Mem Sahib?” inquired his wife, with her most authoritative air.
“One native lady—very rich,” was the totally unexpected reply.
“Native!” echoed Mrs. Brande and Honor in a breath. Then Honor said, “Well, it is extremely kind of her, and you can say, Nuddoo, that if I am not putting her to inconvenience, I accept with great pleasure.”
“Honor!” gasped her aunt.
“Yes, Honor, you are a girl after my own heart,” said her uncle; “hall-marked silver, and not electro-plate. I dare say most of the girls we know would have refused to share the chamber of a native lady!”
“I’m not a girl,” burst out his wife, “and I would for one. She will be chewing betel nut or opium all night, mark my words; and the place will be choked up by her women, huddled on the floor, staring and whispering and eating cardamums and spices! Leave all your jewellery and your watch with me, my dear; and indeed, Pelham, it is not one girl in a hundred who would turn out to sleep with a begum in order to save your rheumatic old joints.”