“How on earth am I to know who or what she is talking about? If it’s not the dog, upon my honour, Aunt Rimbolt— It can’t be the dog, though. She calls him Julius; and why should she take the boy along with them if it wasn’t the librarian puppy she walked with? Rimbolt ought to look after things better than that!
“‘Uncle Rimbolt thinks very highly of his new protégé. He is so quiet; it is quite painful sometimes talking to him. I’m sure he has had a lot of trouble; he has a sort of hunted look sometimes which is quite pathetic. Aunt hardly ever lets him come into the drawing-room, and when she does it is generally in order to snub him. I fancy he feels his anomalous position in this house very much.’”
“My patience! That’s a mild way of putting it!” exclaimed the major; “the anomalous position of this hunted-looking, shy librarian who carries her parasol and escorts her about, and suggests to Percy that two are company and three are none! All I can say is the sooner we get into Kandahar and are paid off home the better!”
“What’s that you’re saying about Kandahar, old man?” said a voice at the door of the tent, and there entered a handsome jaunty-looking officer of about Atherton’s age.
“That you, Forrester? Come in. I’ve just had a letter from my little girl.”
A shade crossed Captain Forrester’s cheery face.
“Your luck, my dear boy. I haven’t had a line.”
“Perhaps there’s a letter for you at head-quarters.”
“I doubt it. But don’t talk about it. How’s your girl flourishing?”
“Upon my honour, she seems to be a little too flourishing,” said the major, taking up his letter with a look of puzzled concern. “You may be a better English scholar than I am, Forrester, and be able to make head or tail of this. As far as I can make it out, Raby is flourishing very decidedly. Here, read this second sheet.”