“But,” said Mrs. Glynde rather breathlessly, “are they never stationed in England?”
“No—never,” replied her husband snappishly.
Mrs. Glynde had a pink patch on each cheek—precisely on the spot whore two such patches had appeared years ago when the doctor spoke so strongly. Those patches were maternal, and only appeared when Dora's affairs, spiritual or temporal, were concerned.
“I don't know,” put in Dora again, “but I have a sort of lurking conviction that Jem will have to wear a turban and red morocco boots.”
“But,” pursued Mrs. Glynde, with that courage which cometh with a red patch on either cheek, “I always thought these Indian regiments were meant for people who are badly off.”
The Rector gave a short laugh.
“You are not so very far wrong, my dear,” he admitted. “And no one can say that Jem is badly off. He will be very rich some day.”
The Rector assumed an air of superior discretion, to which he usually treated his women-folk when he thought fit to consider that they were touching on matters beyond their jurisdiction.
“Some more tea, please, mother,” put in Dora appropriately. “Excuse my appetite. I suppose it is the autumn air.”
There was a short silence, during which Mrs. Glynde sought to propitiate her angered spouse with sodden toast and a second brew of tea.