“In a moment, in a moment!” said Colonel Bayard soothingly, as though speaking to a child. “I brought my wife’s palanquin for you, but I had not realised how bad the landing would be. Would you prefer to wait here while I have it fetched?”
“Indeed I would not—not here!” said Eveleen with a shudder, and supported by the two men, she stumbled uncertainly along the pier.
“I trust Mrs Bayard ain’t ill?” said Richard.
“You could answer that better than I, my good fellow, for you must have passed her on your way up from Bombay. I had to send her down by the next steamer after you had started. So end my hopes of making a home up here. Heigh-ho!”
He gave a great sigh, and Eveleen looked up at him sympathetically. Not noticing that they had come to the end of the pier, she stumbled wildly in the loose sand, and fell. The Resident had her up again in a moment.
“My dear lady, forgive me!” he cried, in deep contrition. “I fear Khemistan is giving you a sorry welcome.”
“Ah, but think how I’ll be adoring the place when I fall on my knees at the first sight of it!” she said, laughing feebly, while her husband—in awful silence—did his best to brush the wet sand from her gown.
“That’s the spirit!” said Colonel Bayard approvingly. “Mrs Ambrose is cut out for the frontier, Richard. Now, ma’am!”
He was handing her into the waiting palki, while she looked longingly at the ponies waiting for the two men. If only there were one for her! But Colonel Bayard would probably be scandalised, and Richard certainly would, if she proposed to ride through the town on a man’s saddle, with a stirrup thrown over to serve as pommel.
“The many times I’ve done it at home!” she lamented to herself. “And sure this place might be in Ireland, only that it’s brown instead of green.”