“Much more likely!” said Colonel Bayard quickly. “Well, he will always have that to his credit, at any rate—that we were not left to be the laughing-stock of the East. Oh, I have nothing against the old fellow, provided he stays down where he is, and don’t come meddling up here.”
“But don’t you like Sir Harry Lennox, Colonel Bayard?” asked Eveleen—her tone suggesting that she did.
“Don’t I say I have nothing against him, my dear lady? But there’s no earthly reason for the Bombay C.-in-C. to come poking about in Khemistan. It ain’t his to poke about in, for one thing.”
“That little difficulty wouldn’t stop him,” said Ambrose drily. “You should hear the Bombay people talk. He’s fluttering their dovecots for ’em, and no mistake.”
“Oh, well, we all know there are plenty of dark corners that want sweeping out, and he’s welcome to do it. Did you get a sight of him when you were down there?”
“He happened to be in the town, so I went to pay my respects. The queerest old ruffian you ever saw—black as a nigger, with a beak like any old Jew in the bazar, and whiskers streaming every way at once.”
“It’s to hide the scar he got at Busaco he wears them long,” broke in Eveleen indignantly. “He has been severely wounded seven times—it’s covered with scars he is entirely.”
“And would feel himself amply repaid if he knew Mrs Ambrose kept count of ’em, I’ll be bound,” said Colonel Bayard gallantly. “Is the old General a friend of yours, ma’am?”
“He is, indeed. At least, I met him when I was at Mahabuleshwar, and he was very kind. He might have been an Irishman.”
“Really? Well, they say that, thanks to being born in Ireland, he has all the Irish vices without a drop of Irish blood in his veins.”