John felt himself blushing.
"I know you as Cousin Sylvia, ma'am," he said.
"We'll be great friends, I'm sure. You know Joe and Poll; this is Helen. Hilda, come and be introduced to my long-lost nephew. Regard me as your favourite aunt, my dear boy. Tell me," she whispered, "is that fat smiling gentleman in white your failed B.A.?"
"That's he: cook, khansaman, and major-domo. Said Mohammed, escort the ladies to their rooms."
The Bengali approached, bowing to each in turn.
"Esteemed madam and misses," he said, "deign to direct your footsteps to humble abode, or, as William Cowper beautifully says, your lodge in vast wilderness, with boundless contiguity of shade."
The ladies preserved an admirable composure, and retired to the huts assigned to them.
"Now, John," said Mrs. Burtenshaw, when they reappeared, "you must show us round this wonderful farm of yours. It looks very tidy, I must say. But where are your sheep? I thought you had hundreds, and there aren't fifty in that pen."
"They're out at grass, cousin; you'll see them come in by and by. There really isn't much to see, you know. Cabbages and artichokes--'m; topinambours is the name for ladies, says my cook--they're just the same, here and at home. If you'd come a few months later, now, I might have shown you some zebras. I'm going to try and tame some."
"Ah yes! I remember you threatened to meet your father on a striped charger, to match his striped trousers.... Who's that funny-looking little object?"