“It appears,” he said sharply, while he was stirring his tea, “that Jem Agar has got his commission in a Goorkha regiment.” Now Mrs. Glynde knew more about the organisation of the heavenly bands than of the administration of the Indian army. She did not know whether to rejoice or lament, and having been sharply pulled up--any time during the last twenty years--for doing one or the other in the wrong place, she meekly took soundings. “What is that, dear?” she inquired. “The Goorkhas are native Indian soldiers,” explained the Rector. “Very good fellows, no doubt. They get all the hard knocks in small frontier wars and none of the half-pence. What the woman can have been thinking of, I don't know.” Mrs. Glynde was anxiously glancing towards Dora, who was nicking the nose of a sportive kitten with the tassel of the tea-cosy. “And will he go to India?” she asked, with laudable mental grovellings in the mire of her own ignorance. “Course he will.” “And,” added Dora cheerfully, “he will come home covered with glory and medals, with a weakness for strong pickles and hot language--I mean hot pickles and strong language.” “But,” said Mrs. Glynde rather breathlessly, “are they never stationed in England?” “No--never,” replied her husband snappishly. Mrs. Glynde had a pink patch on each cheek--precisely on the spot whore two such patches had appeared years ago when the doctor spoke so strongly. Those patches were maternal, and only appeared when Dora's affairs, spiritual or temporal, were concerned. “I don't know,” put in Dora again, “but I have a sort of lurking conviction that Jem will have to wear a turban and red morocco boots.” “But,” pursued Mrs. Glynde, with that courage which cometh with a red patch on either cheek, “I always thought these Indian regiments were meant for people who are badly off.” The Rector gave a short laugh. “You are not so very far wrong, my dear,” he admitted. “And no one can say that Jem is badly off. He will be very rich some day.” The Rector assumed an air of superior discretion, to which he usually treated his women-folk when he thought fit to consider that they were touching on matters beyond their jurisdiction. “Some more tea, please, mother,” put in Dora appropriately. “Excuse my appetite. I suppose it is the autumn air.” There was a short silence, during which Mrs. Glynde sought to propitiate her angered spouse with sodden toast and a second brew of tea. “I always said,” observed the Rector at last, “that your cousin was a fool.” And in some indefinite way Mrs. Glynde felt that she was once more responsible. CHAPTER VI FOR HIS COUNTRY Shall I forget on this side of the grave? I promise nothing; you must wait and see.