“Isn’t she a funny old thing?” said Mrs. Soames. “She lives down at Begumpett, where her husband commands a regiment, and she dresses like a caretaker, but is such a good, generous woman, so kind to the natives, Eurasians, and poor whites. She spends on others—saves on herself. To my certain knowledge she has had that toque ever since I came to the station. If anyone is ill, it’s Mrs. Lakin to the front; if anyone is in trouble, they turn to Mrs. Lakin. Her husband is a smart, well-set-up man, and looks years younger than his dowdy wife. Their bungalow is on the style of forty years ago, quite a curiosity. They have queer old furniture and Argand lamps, but give capital dinners in the good solid style; everything in the most lavish profusion. Masses of servants, dozens of courses, wonderful curries, and such tender mutton! She is the secretary of our Mutton Club. It is really an historical object lesson to dine with the Lakins, and to learn how things were done—say at the time of the battle of Plassey.”
“I wish she would invite me to dinner,” I replied. “She is a nice, confidential, motherly old thing, adores India, and cannot endure the idea of leaving the country.”
“No, I dare say not,” said Mrs. Soames; “all her children were born and most of her relations are buried out here. Her sons and daughters are scattered about this Presidency. I don’t suppose she has anyone belonging to her at home, and would be rather at a loose end in Bayswater or West Kensington.”
“She might write her memoirs,” I suggested, and here Ronnie and several of his friends surrounded our carriage and claimed our attention.
The night that Captain Falkland dined with the Soameses the only other guests were Major and Mrs. Mills, the chaplain and his wife, and ourselves—a somewhat sober party. I must confess that I took unusual pains with my appearance. My ayah and luggage had arrived. Captain Falkland had never seen me in full war paint, that is to say in evening dress, for at what he called the “beanfeast” I had worn a demi-toilette. I think Mrs. Soames was a little impressed by the fact of our former acquaintance; at any rate, she sent us in to dinner together, and we talked away gaily.
We discoursed about Torrington and Beke, the “Beetle,” and also the “Plough and Harrow.”
“That was a ghostly old place,” he remarked. “I spent two nights there and heard the most extraordinary noises, as if someone was ploughing up and down the passages.”
“Oh, how amusing!” exclaimed Mrs. Soames.
“Surely you don’t believe in ghosts?” I said.
“No, I’m not sure that I do,” he replied, “although we own one ourselves—appearance guaranteed only to members of the family—but I have a sort of sneaking belief in those horrible things called ‘Elementals.’”