“Mummie! How beastly of you! You must not dream of doing it.”
“It’s fur-lined,” said Mrs. Daye, with an injured inflection. “Besides, she isn’t the wife of the L.G. now, you know.”
“Papa——”
“What? Oh, certainly not! Ridiculous! Besides, you’re too late with your second-hand souvenir, my dear. St. George says that Mrs. Church sails to-day from Calcutta. Awfully cut up, poor woman, he says. Wouldn’t go back to Belvedere; wouldn’t see a soul: went to a boarding-house and shut herself up in two rooms.”
“How unkind you are about news, Richard! Fancy your not telling us that before! And I think you and Rhoda are quite wrong about the cloak. If you had died suddenly of cholera in a a dâk-bungalow in the wilds and I was left with next to nothing, I would accept little presents from friends in the spirit in which they were offered, no matter what my position had been!”
“I daresay you would, my dear. But if I—hello! Exchange is going up again—if I catch you wearing cast-off mourning for me, I’ll come and hang around until you burn it. By the way, I saw Doyle last night at the Club.”
“The barrister? Did you speak to him?” asked Mrs. Daye.
“Yes. ‘Hello!’ I said: ‘thought you were on leave. What in the world brings you up here?’ Seems that Pattore telegraphed askin’ Doyle to defend him in this big diamond case with Ezra, and he came out. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘Pattore’s in Calcutta, Ezra’s in Calcutta, diamond’s in Calcutta, an’ you’re in Darjiling. When I’m sued for two lakhs over a stone to dangle on my tummy I won’t retain you!’”
“And what did Mr. Doyle say to that, papa?” his daughter inquired.
“Oh—I don’t remember. Something about never having seen the place before or something. Here, khansamah—cheroot!”