“Why? Is he a Yao—like the fellow Wade brought here—when your housekeeper had fits?” Stalky often visits the Infant, and has seen some odd things.
“No. He's one of old Strickland's Punjabi policemen—and quite European—I believe.”
“Hooray! Haven't talked Punjabi for three months—and a Punjabi from Central Africa ought to be amusin'.”
We heard the chuff of the motor in the porch, and the first to enter was Agnes Strickland, whom the Infant makes no secret of adoring.
He is devoted, in a fat man's placid way, to at least eight designing women; but she nursed him once through a bad bout of Peshawur fever, and when she is in the house, it is more than all hers.
“You didn't send rugs enough,” she began. “Adam might have taken a chill.”
“It's quite warm in the tonneau. Why did you let him ride in front?”
“Because he wanted to,” she replied, with the mother's smile, and we were introduced to the shadow of a young man leaning heavily on the shoulder of a bearded Punjabi Mohammedan.
“That is all that came home of him,” said his father to me. “There was nothing in it of the child with whom I had journeyed to Dalhousie centuries since.”
“And what is this uniform?” Stalky asked of Imam Din, the servant, who came to attention on the marble floor.