“Talking of sending home,” said Mrs. Paul, “our collection for that poor widow and her children is getting on famously; we have nearly two thousand rupees; I must say that Anglo-Indians are most liberal, they never turn a deaf ear to a deserving charity.”
“It is probably because they are shamed into it by the noble example set them by the natives,” remarked Mr. Brande. “A man out here will share his last chuppatty and his last pice with his kin—thanks to the fact that the well-to-do support all their needy relations; we have no poor rates.”
“There is one mysteriously charitable person in Shirani,” continued Mrs. Paul, “who has repeatedly sent Herbert fifty rupees in notes anonymously, we cannot guess who he is?”
“He? why should it not be she?” inquired Miss Valpy, combatively.
“The writing is in a man’s hand, and the notes are stuffed in anyhow—they are extremely welcome, however—always come when most wanted. It is some one who has been here since March.”
“No, no, Mrs. Paul; you need not look at me,” exclaimed Captain Scrope, with a deprecating gesture; “I am an object of charity myself.”
“Have you no idea, have you formed no conjecture?” inquired Mr. Brande, judicially.
“I was thinking that perhaps Sir Gloster,” she began.
“Oh!” broke in Miss Valpy, hastily, “I can assure you that he is quite above suspicion: the only thing about him that is not large—is his heart. It is much more likely to be one of the present company,” and her smiling glance roved from Mr. Brande to Honor, from Honor to Mr. Rawson, from Mr. Rawson to Mr. Jervis.
His face was determinedly bent down, he was playing with “Jacko” (the friend of dead-and-gone Ben, who now honoured Rookwood with much of his society), and all she could scrutinize was a head of brown hair and a neat parting. Presently the head was raised. She met his eyes point-blank. Yes, he looked undeniably embarrassed, not to say guilty, as he endeavoured to evade her searching gaze.