‘Come, darling,’ I said to her this evening, when at last the fierce sun had sunk below the horizon, and it was possible to quit the house; ‘put on your hat, and let us have a little stroll in the compound together, we may not have many more opportunities of walking alone.’
Our ‘compound,’ as the ground surrounding an Indian bungalow is usually called, is a large piece of uncultivated land, sheltered by lanky cocoa-nut trees, and carpeted with burnt-up turf from end to end, whereof is cut a sandy track, which we term our carriage-drive.
Janie was ready in a moment, and up and down the track of sand we wandered, arm-in-arm, inhaling eagerly the faint breath of sea-air wafted to us from across the plain which separates us from the ocean.
‘Oh, Robert dear!’ said Janie, casting up her pensive blue eyes to meet my own, ‘I wish I had never written that letter to Uncle Henry. I am more sure every day that you don’t like the notion of Lionne staying with us.’
I can’t think what put the letter or her cousin into my wife’s head at that particular moment; for I have not alluded to the subject for several days past.
‘My dearest child,’ I answered her, ‘whether I like it or not is of little consequence. There is no alternative; therefore we must bear the infliction as best we may. Thank heaven, it will not be for ever.’
‘But you are not to look upon it as an infliction, Robert,’ said Janie, as she squeezed my arm, ‘because, directly you see Margaret, you will like her.’
I shrugged my shoulders incredulously.
‘But indeed you will,’ continued my little wife with, for her, a most unusual display of energy. ‘You don’t know how nice-looking she is; tall and slight, with large dark eyes and—’
‘Yes, yes, I know,’ I interrupted impatiently. ‘Six feet high, and gaunt as a cab-horse, with flaming black eyes and hair, and a complexion like Spanish olives. I know the sort of woman, Janie; you’ve described her to me often enough. The less said about her beauty the better.’