“Aye! She has a lot more, but I fancied the sound of that yen.”
“Surely you do not address her so familiarly?”
“And why not? Gad! she calls me Roger, pat as a magpie with a split tongue.”
“This is news indeed. Yet you tell me she is not inclined to tender passages?”
“Tender fiddle-de-dee! She laughs like a mime if I tickle her ribs with my thumb when the mule stumbles. My soul, Walter, you are grown so used to every woman making sheep’s eyes at you that you think they’ll treat a hulk like me after the same daft fashion.”
“In truth,” said Mowbray, sadly, “my courtships have been all too brief, and threaten to end in aught save laughter.”
“Nay, nay, lad. Let not thy spirits fail. I cannot but think that you and I shall scent the moors again together. We have driven our pigs to queer markets; mayhap we shall sty them yet, despite this cross-eyed Emperor and that fly-by-night, Nur Mahal.”
“I have dreamed of home in my sleep of late. Methought I saw my mother weeping.”
“’Tis well. They say dreams go by contrary. Were it otherwise, has she not good cause to greet? By the Lord Harry, when we show our noses in Wensleydale, my auld dam will clout my lugs. ‘Roger, you good-for-nowt,’ she will say, ‘I tellt ye te keep Master Mowbray frae harm, and here hev’ ye led him tiv a pleace wheer t’ grass grows downwards and t’ foxes fly i’ t’ air. I’m fair shammed on ye!’ Eh, man, but I’ll be glad to hear her tongue clack i’ that gait.”
And with this cheerful dictum Sainton strode away to bewilder and amuse the Countess di Cabota with his amazing lingo. Although they were now enjoying the glorious cold weather of India, the absence of wind and the brilliant sun of the Doab served to render the midday hours somewhat sultry. Her Ladyship, being plump, complained of weariness.