“Young! Why he is past thirty, nearly my own age.” (Oh, come! Miss Browne.) “Young! Rubbish. The Queen was older than Prince Albert. Well, I can’t stay here talking all day. I must send off a telegram. I must run across and tell the Smiths and Joneses, and call in at Miss Tuck’s about the trousseau. You might go round and look up that woman who comes out sewing by the day. By-the-by, what’s to be done with you? Tom never thought of that—foolish fellow! he is so taken up with me. I’ll send you to board in some respectable quiet family—or a finishing school—or somewhere.”
Then Miss Browne, Senior, set about her preparations with inconceivable promptitude, and despatched the telegram and letters which threw Tom Galway into such a transport of happiness.
The Chusan arrived in Bombay two days before her time, and “Miss Browne” was among the passengers; her toilettes were Parisian, and her airs and assumption of youth were more ridiculous than ever. She displayed Tom’s photograph in dead secrecy to about fifteen different ladies, who marvelled at this handsome young man’s infatuation, and subsequently nodded, and giggled among themselves and said, “Money.”
The yearly inspection was in full swing at Blazapore, so Tom had not the smallest chance of getting leave to meet his fiancée at Bombay. She was expected to arrive in three days’ time, and all preparations for her reception were nearly completed. Tom had had a long spell at musketry on the ranges, and was resting himself in his own verandah when Jack Murray arrived at a gallop.
“I say, Tom! Look alive!” he began breathlessly. “She’s come!”
“Who? Who has come?” said Tom, jumping to his feet.
“Why, she—Lily—Miss Browne. She drove up to the Cornwalls’ just now—a strange lady, pretty figure, thick white gauze veil. So hurry up! Hurry up!”
No need to repeat this injunction; Tom was already in his own apartment, tearing off his dusty uniform, and shouting to his chokra for his boots, his best suit, and a clean shirt. It was almost dusk when he arrived at his colonel’s bungalow and was met by Mrs. Cornwall in the verandah.
“She will be in the drawing-room directly,” she whispered mysteriously. “She has had a cup of tea, and is taking off her hat; the Chusan came in before her time.”
“What do you think of her, Mrs. Cornwall?” asked Tom impulsively, colouring as he spoke. “Isn’t she the prettiest girl you ever saw?”