“No, Huzoor, but one lady been here two days; breakfast, tiffin, and dinner.”
“What?”
“Yes, she telling me she is the Sahib’s—cousin—same like sister—and come from England.”
“There must be some mistake,” muttered Lovett, staring at the scattered cushions, the crumpled newspapers, and stumps of cigarettes which littered his usually neat verandah.
“Here, the Missy now coming!” announced the bearer, and he indicated with a tragic finger the dogcart, spanking down the road, in which sat a slim, upright, female form, wearing a jaunty sailor-hat and a gay pink frock. The dogcart rattled into the compound, and up to the steps, and an absolutely strange girl called out to the bewildered Lovett:
“Hullo, so there you are! So glad to see you at last!”
She threw the reins to the syce, jumped down, and was presently shaking the collector’s limp, reluctant hand.
“Now come inside,” she said, taking him by the arm, and lifting the chick, “and I’ll tell you all about it—I daresay you are a little bit surprised?”
Lovett, dumbfounded, stood speechless, for the moment mentally stunned, staring into the smiling face and bold, saucy eyes of his companion.
A thick curly fringe of yellow hair peeped out beneath the sailor-hat; her dress, though merely cotton, was elaborately trimmed, and frilled; round her neck was a huge lace ruffle.