Miss Dacre had expected the much-sought-after gentleman to be abominably conceited, egotistical and spoiled, but one day, when they were both sheltering in a “tope” from a shower, she was agreeably surprised to discover that his opinion of himself was of the humblest—that he had been at school—and in the same house—with her pet brother, and that he really was not at all bad! She suffered him to ride back with her to the cantonment, and at an early date permitted her sister to invite him to dinner. Miss Dacre was a pretty girl, and an accomplished musician, but she had a mischievous sense of humour and a witty tongue. She teased the little tin god; she flouted him, and repelled him with her jeers, whilst her merry, mocking eyes held him fast. Edgar Lovett became her slave—he was desperately in love, but dared not declare his sentiments, the lady being so perplexingly reserved. Oh, if he only had one ray of hope he would have spoken—but his goddess gave no sign. She rode with him, and quarrelled, and danced, and laughed, and mocked, and argued—and drove the poor fellow distracted.
He had frequently, but vainly, invited Miss Dacre and her sister to come to tea in his bungalow, and to inspect and borrow his books. He promised them a tempting exhibition of all his latest publications: after long demur, a date was positively fixed. Unfortunately, just before this happy event, Lovett was obliged to leave the cantonment for two days’ official duty in the district. His business accomplished, he returned to Munser in a fever of anxiety. His train was behind time, and he was desperately afraid that he would arrive too late to receive his honoured and important guests.
Outside the station Lovett looked in vain for his smart dogcart and fast stepper—instead of which he found one of his own peons awaiting him, with a dusty old gharry.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, in imperious Hindustani, “where is the cart?”
“Light of the World,” replied the man, “by your favour, the Missy Sahib hath taken it.”
“Missy—what Miss Sahib?”
“The Missy who has been at your honour’s house this two days.”
Lovett sprang into the gharry shouting the word “Chullo!” and was soon swept out of the station, in a cloud of dust.
Ten minutes’ galloping brought him to where his own trim yet dignified bungalow stood, in a large compound, within a few yards of the principal highroad; and throwing a rupee to the driver, he dashed up the steps, and flung into the drawing-room. No, they had not arrived—the house was empty. It was after six o’clock, and here the bearer appeared—grave-eyed, and with a troubled mien.
“Did two ladies come for tea?” inquired Lovett.