Occasionally the camp was pitched within a ride of some little station, and visitors cantered out to early tea or tiffin. One day Mrs. Gordon entertained three guests, a man in the Opium (the worst paid department in India), his wife, and a girl who was on a visit with them, a pretty little person with a round baby face, fluffy hair, a pair of hard blue eyes, and an insatiable appetite for excitement. The party sat out in the shade of the peepul trees after tea, within view of the camp train—the horses and camels at their pickets, the dogs, the cows, the groups of servants, the scarlet and gold chuprassis lounging about waiting for orders, and the crowd of petitioners and villagers besieging the office tent. Miss Cuffe, the spoiled beauty of a tiny station, condescended to remark that the scene was quite imposing and picturesque. "Almost like what one would see at Drury Lane." "O horror! the pomp and glory of the Sirdar, as embodied in a great Indian encampment, compared to a pantomime." "I suppose you miss the theatres, Miss Cuffe?" said Lindsay, who had been released after a long day's work. "You are right," she answered with a coquettish simper. "I do like a show. I did all the plays before I came out." "And we have nothing to offer you but snake-charmers, magic wallahs, and fortune-tellers. I believe there is one in camp now, a renowned Fakir who lives in this part of the world; his fame has travelled to Agra." "Oh, Mr. Lindsay, do, do send for him," pleaded Miss Cuffe. "But I warn you that he is not pretty to look at; he generally prophesies evil things, and is, as a rule, under the influence of Bhang." "I don't care in the least," she cried recklessly. "Do—do send for him. What do you say, Mrs. Gascoigne and Mrs. Gordon?" appealing to them. "My fortune is told," replied Mrs. Gordon. "Fate cannot harm _me_; but have the Fakir by all means, if Mr. Lindsay can persuade him to appear." In another moment two messengers had been despatched in search of the soothsayer. Miss Cuffe resolved to make the most of the brilliant opportunity of cultivating Mr. Lindsay, the popular collector, who was said to be next heir to seven thousand a year. The best way to interest him, thought the shrewd little person, is to talk of his district and his work. "I am so ignorant, Mr. Lindsay," she remarked pathetically; "only just two months in India. Do tell me what all the people round here," waving her plump hands, "believe in?" "What an immense question!" he exclaimed. "Do you mean the peasants?" She nodded her head with an emphasis that was impressive, although all the time she was neither thinking nor caring about the peasants, but reflecting that here was a providential occasion for her to cement an acquaintance with this charming and eligible _parti_; the coast was clear from rivals; there was no one to absorb his devotion and claim his attention but two stupid married ladies, who had been in camp for weeks—and of whom he must be _so_ tired.