"Strange! So he has. Do you think, nurse, the sahib, his father, will think that the child looks his age? He is to be a year and a quarter, you know."
The ayah laughed. "Men know nothing," she said.
In a day or two the supposed parent returned home. He was a man advanced in years, between sixty and seventy. He was tall and spare of figure. His features were strongly marked, the features of a man who administers and commands. His face was full of authority; his eyes were as keen as a hawk's. He stepped up the stairs with the spring of five and twenty, and welcomed his wife with the sprightliness of a bridegroom of that elastic age. The man was, in fact, a retired Indian. He had spent forty years or so in administrating provinces: he was a king retired from business, a sovereign abdicated, on whose face a long reign had left the stamp of kingcraft. It was natural that in the evening of his life this man should marry a young and beautiful girl; it was also quite natural that this girl should entertain, for a husband old enough to be her grandfather, an affection and respect which dominated her.
He held out both arms; he embraced his wife with the ardour of a young lover; he turned her face to the light.
"Lilias!" he murmured, "let me look at you. Why, my dear, you look pale—and worried! Is anything the matter?"
"Nothing—nothing—now you are home again."
"And the boy? Where is the boy?"
"He shall be brought in." The ayah appeared carrying the child. "Here he is; quite well—and strong—and happy. Your son is quite happy—quite happy——" Her voice broke. She sank into a chair, and fell into hysterical sobbing and weeping. "He is quite—quite—quite happy."
They brought cold water, and presently she became calmer. Then the father turned again to consider the boy.
"He looks strong and hearty; but he doesn't seem much bigger than when you carried him off six months ago."