"Quite ready," and with a slight inclination of her head she took leave of her new acquaintance, and walked out of the refreshment room. Mr. Chandos piloted his daughter into a wide space at the back of the station, where a victoria was in waiting, with a showy bay arab in the shafts and a man with a gigantic red turban and blue and red coat on the box. His feet were bare, which struck Verona as peculiar. "We can start at once," said her father, handing her in as he spoke; "Hassan will see to the baggage," and he indicated a long, clumsy conveyance, drawn by two water buffaloes, into which primitive concern her boxes were already being hoisted. In another moment they were whirled away from the station along a flat, white road--indeed, the whole country seemed as flat as a billiard table. They trotted through a narrow bazaar, full of customers, domestic animals and gaudy little shops; occasionally they were obliged to pull up until a recumbent cow or goat saw fit to rise and suffer them to pass. From the bazaar the road led to a steep bridge, and as they crossed it Mr. Chandos pointed out various objects. "There is the city," he said, "this side of the river. Two hundred thousand inhabitants. Where you see the spire and trees, is the cantonment. We live farther out in this direction." "And have you no neighbours?" "Oh, any amount. We are a community of our own. The factory employs some hundreds of natives, and about thirty English and Eurasians." "Eurasian!" she echoed; "Oh, what a pretty name! What _is_ a Eurasian?" A spasm of pain seemed to contract her father's face, but he appeared not to have heard the question. It was evidently his habit to occasionally ignore or misunderstand what was said to him. "Had you a good passage, my dear?" he asked. "Only pretty good. Hot in the Red Sea and rough off Aden." Here several passing coolies salaamed to her father, and he acknowledged their greeting with a jerk of his hand. "What a charming salutation!" she exclaimed; "I like it so much better than our nodding and scraping." "I'm afraid it's the only thing you _will_ like," he remarked with a sigh. "Our life will be irksome, I'm afraid. We are real Anglo-Indians, and have made our home out here." "I shall like my home, you may be sure," she declared, "my home and my people. How long is it since you were in England, father?" "Twenty-eight years." "Oh! almost a lifetime. How is my mother?" "As usual." "And my sisters--what are their names?" "Blanche, Dominga, and Pussy--her real name is Bellamina. Blanche is married to a young man in the telegraph department. She has a little boy." "My nephew! How delightful." Mr. Chandos gave a curious little laugh, and resumed: "Pussy is nearly twenty-four; then you come; then Dominga--she is twenty, and Nicky is seventeen." "Oh, I do hope they will all like me," said Verona, as she turned a beautiful enthusiastic face on the shattered man at her side.