“How well you look, Chumbley!”
“Ay! and you too! Why, you dog, you’re putting on flesh! But, how’s the little wife? How are you getting on?”
“Capitally! And you: do you like this savage life?”
“Savage, be hanged!” he cried. “Like it, my boy? I should think I do. By George, sir, she’s a splendid woman! Ah, here are the chicks.”
As he spoke, a Malay nurse brought in two little dark-eyed, creamy-complexioned children, who made a rush and a dash as soon as they were set free, and began to scale Chumbley’s knees, not ceasing till they were standing in his lap, and holding on by his beard.
“Gently! gently! You’ll break me! There never was such a pair of vital sparks on earth before! Now look here, you young limbs, turn round and talk to this gentleman. Tell him your names.”
“Bertie Hilton Chumbley, Rajah of Campong Selah,” said the elder—a handsome little boy in a brilliant silken sarong.
“Grey Stuart Chumbley, pa’s own darling pet,” lisped the other—a bright little doll of a girl, whom her father stood up afterwards and proudly balanced on one of his great hands.
“Like it,” continued Chumbley, stretching himself; “I never knew what life was till I came out here and married the Inche Maida. Ah, here she is.”
Hilton, as he recalled the past, felt a little conscious; but the Princess, who, in spite of her dark skin, looked quite the European lady, advanced, holding out her hand so frankly that they were laughing and chatting the next minute as if they were the oldest of friends, Hilton quite winning her heart by the way in which he took to her children.