“Ever since we came from India,” replied Madrasia, forgetting our compact. “Some few years ago.”
“Ah, Mr. Parslewe came from India, did he?” asked Sir Charles eagerly. “But you?—you were surely not born under those burning skies?”
“I was!” answered Madrasia, with a laugh.
“Of English parents, of course,” suggested Sir Charles. “Of course!—the English rose!—ah, the English rose! No one, Miss Durham, could mistake you for anything else than that!”
I coughed—discreetly. And Madrasia took the hint.
“I’m sorry Mr. Parslewe is not at home,” she began. “Can I give him any message?”
Sir Charles drew out a card case, and laid a card on the table. Then he rose, and we both saw his eyes turn to the copper box. He gave it a good, straight glance.
“Thank you, thank you!” he answered. “My card, and my compliments and regrets, and perhaps I may do myself the pleasure of waiting upon him again, if he returns soon. I should much like to see his—ah—collections.”
Madrasia picked up the card.
“And you are staying, Sir Charles?” she asked.