Verona started. "----have more in common than all the other members of your family--as we have both been in England; I," she bridled, "of course was born there," and she looked round the room. "You," to Verona, "were born out here--whereabouts?" Verona glanced at her mother interrogatively. "Oh--in Murree," she answered sharply, then exclaimed: "My! whatt a long time since Mrs. Trotter has been in England; she will not know it as you do, Verona. Twenty-five years, is it not?" "Yes," assented Mrs. Trotter with obvious reluctance. "So Lizzie was born at home? And that makes her at least twenty-seven," and Mrs. Chandos closed her eyes, as much as to say "I have scored." "Lizzie is twenty-six next birthday; she looks just as young as Dominga, but that is because she is English." "I suppose you were awfully gay in England?" said Lizzie, now addressing Verona for the first time. "Yes, but we lived chiefly abroad," replied Verona. "And in grand, smart society," announced Mrs. Chandos; "princes and dukes and all that sort of thing." "There is not much of that sort of thing out here; you will only know the railway people, and contractors and such like," remarked Mrs. Trotter. "I suppose London is a good deal changed since I was there; I remember going in the Underground and thinking it so wonderful." "That is an old story now," rejoined Verona with a smile; "there is the Tube." "And the Crystal Palace and Madame Trousseaux's" (she meant Tussaud's), "with the murderers in the basement. What a sight!--Oh!" with a start, "here is Mrs. Watkin; I thought she was coming, for I saw her ayah shaking out her best dress--so now I will go, as at present we do not speak." Enter Mrs. Watkin, a young woman, pale, very stiff, and smartly dressed. She stared at Verona with cold inquisitive eyes, and chiefly confined her conversation to the climate. The lady was--as Pussy had hinted, "stuck up," but although there was some conversation with respect to flowers, she had no opportunity to introduce the two gardeners. A proper sequel to these morning calls was a visit to Blanche in the afternoon. Mrs. Chandos excused herself, but Verona and Pussy started off in the victoria to spend a happy afternoon in Rajahpore! The residence of Mrs. Montagu-Jones was a trim little red brick bungalow, with a shallow verandah, covered with purple railway creeper. Everything looked precisely as it was--or had been--cheap; everywhere was evident, audacious apings at style and at fashion; everywhere the ugly adjective "makeshift" obtruded itself with heartless prominence. There were scrimpy cretonne curtains in the windows; sixpenny fans and brackets on the walls; unreliable flounced cane chairs, a gaudy Europe carpet and many rickety tables crowded the drawing-room.