A cool fountain was playing in the terraced garden in front of the promenoir, shooting high in the air and falling back into its basin in a shower of scattering diamond drops. Beside this, leaning on an alpenstock, a big meerschaum in his mouth, stood General Wyatt.
“Well, Alma. Been ravaging the narcissus fields?” he said, as they came up. “But what on earth will you do with all that lot? A trifle too strong, won’t it be, for any ordinary-sized room?”
“I don’t think so, uncle. Why, in England people would give anything for such magnificent blossoms as these, and here we are already beginning to think them nothing very great. But I’ll go and put them in water for the present.”
“Well, don’t be long, dear, or we sha’n’t get our walk,” he called after her.
“Grand day, General?” said Philip, re-lighting his pipe.
“It is, indeed. By the bye, since I’ve heard your name, are you in any way related to Francis Orlebar—Sir Francis he is now?”
“Rather closely. He happens to be my father. Did you know him well?”
“You don’t say so! Well, well! It’s a small world, after all. Know him well? I should think I did. I was some years his senior though, and he wasn’t long in the service. But that must have been before you were born.”
“And have you never met since, General?”
“Only once—just about the time he got into that—er—ah.” And the old man, remembering who he was talking to, suddenly pulled himself up and launched forth into a tremendous sneeze. The slip was not lost upon Phil, but he came to the rescue promptly.