The gardener’s wife was a Nalapuri woman, and quite willing to give shelter to her compatriot, who had been eyeing the European house with much disfavour; and Lady Haigh called up the two ayahs, and set them to work at making up some sort of beds, while she and Penelope had some tea. The moment they were alone she turned to Penelope and said, “Well?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Penelope.
“Oh, nonsense! Did he say anything?”
“He said he should drop me on the sand if we were attacked in front.”
“Of course, Dugald said that to me. But what else?”
“Nothing, really. I—I went to sleep, Elma.”
“Penelope, you are perfectly hopeless! I should dearly like to beat you. You haven’t one scrap of romance in your whole composition. You went to sleep!”
“I was so dreadfully tired—and I felt so safe, so wonderfully safe.”
“I suppose you expect him to take that as a compliment. But I am disgusted. Oh, Pen, I didn’t think it of you!”
“I couldn’t help it,” pleaded Penelope, “and he didn’t mean to say anything then, I’m sure.” But Lady Haigh refused to be mollified.