“No”—rather shortly.
“And is that all you have to say?”—in a tone of keen disappointment.
“Good gracious, Sara!” exclaimed her husband, impatiently, “you don’t suppose that they carried on any conversation, unless they talked in their sleep.”
“And here are your bangles and things, dear,” continued her aunt. “But I don’t see your little cornelian ring anywhere! I really—it’s not worth a penny—but I don’t see it.”
No—nor was she ever likely to see it again.
CHAPTER XXVII.
MRS. LANGRISHE PUTS HERSELF OUT TO TAKE SOMEBODY IN.
The little excursion into the interior lasted ten days. Mr. Brande was fond of thus throwing off the trammels of office and putting many miles of mountain and valley between himself and official letters, telegrams, and scarlet chuprassis, with their detestable tin boxes. He remained away until the last hour of his leave, enjoying leisurely marches, al fresco tiffins and teas in inviting spots, also friendly discussions with the sturdy Paharis or hill-folk. He returned to Shirani as much refreshed by the change as his good lady.
Tea was ready in the verandah when they reached home. Everything appeared in apple-pie order even to the mistress’s keen eye, from the snowy-clad khitmatgars, the glossy dark-green ferns to the flouted pup, newly washed and be-ribboned, who was in attendance in the ayah’s arms. In a short time Mrs. Sladen appeared to welcome the family. She was speedily followed by Mrs. Paul in a rickshaw and Miss Valpy on a smart chestnut pony.
“We have come to hear all your news,” said the latter, as she helped herself to a nice little hot cake.
“News! Pray where should we get news?” demanded Mrs. Brande, whose spirits had evidently revived.