"Daddy, that darling Sir Henry has had soup, and now he is eating unleavened cakes, and a peculiarly murderous-looking Pathan is tempting him with a pomegranate. Do stop him; he is dining with us in an hour's time, and mamma will be so vexed if he doesn't eat the most enormous dinner."
Colonel Fanshawe, with Elizabeth still on his arm, stepped over a couple of sleeping prostrate forms.
"Yes, we will go to him," he said, "and you shall tell me more about the simple life afterwards. It is getting late."
Sir Henry had just cracked a pomegranate in his enormous beefy hands.
"God bless me!" he was saying. "I never saw anything look so good. Fanshawe, be kind enough to tell this man in your best Pushtoo, that there's a fortune in pomegranates. Why, it's quite delicious; never tasted such a fine fruit."
Colonel Fanshawe made some amiable equivalent of all this in Pushtoo, and spoke to Sir Henry again.
"He says that his trees will bear in greater abundance than ever now, sir. But it is rather late. I think we ought to be getting home. You won't have more than time to eat your dinner in comfort before the train——"
Sir Henry rejected a mass of seeds.
"Yes, yes; we'll go," he said. "Why, here's my Miss Elizabeth come to insist. I always obey the ladies, Colonel; you obey the ladies always, and you'll have a confoundedly pleasant time. Now, Miss Elizabeth, quick march, is it?"