“Its all up with him,” said the caustic old bachelor captain whom I had met at the colonel’s, giving me a slight touch with his elbow; “as dead a case of splice as I ever saw in my life—well, humph!—better let it alone, and remain as he is. He’ll think so too when the _butchas_ (children) and the bills come tumbling in together by-and-by.” Lucinda now, at the desire of some of the company, gave us some charming airs to the accompaniment of the guitar, which she touched with peculiar grace; Maria afterwards warbled to the piano, and finally, by particular desire, sung a lively native song, the burthen of which was “_Hilly milly puniya_,” the great delight of the old collector, who stood over her, shaking his head, beating time with his hands, as if quite at home in the matter, and occasionally footing it in a mincing burlesque way, which I was afterwards told was a jocular imitation of the Indian nautch girls, with whom this song is a favourite; it constituting one of that mellifluous variety, with which I have often since heard them “startle the dull ear of night.” A good deal of merriment was caused by the collector’s animated earnestness, and the young hands cried “_encore!_” One of his friends, an old colonel, present, exclaimed, “Why, you nautch superbly, Dilkhoob (for that was his name); I did not expect such activity at your time of life.” “Ah! don’t I—don’t I?” said the merry old gentleman. “But what do you mean, sir, by my time of life? five-and-twenty only last birthday! We young fellows must be always in action—always in action.” “You both play and sing, do you not, Miss Heartwell?” said Maria, addressing herself to Julia. Julia, of course, said “very little,” that she hardly ever played, “excepting at home;” and that, moreover, she was just then haunted by the vocalist’s malific genius, a cold. The facetious collector now seated himself near a very lovely young woman, who, I learnt from Tom, was the adjutant’s lady; a pleasant _tête-à-tête_ followed; the lady seemed highly amused; the adjutant himself, who was a friend of Dilkhoob, soon joined them. “Well, sir, here you find me,” said the old gentleman, “flirting with your wife. Sir, I love your wife.” The adjutant smiled (it was almost a _mauvaise plaisanterie_). “Yes, I’ve a right to love her, sir; I’m not forbidden to love her as long as I don’t covet her; and so I will love her, sir.” The gentlemen laughed—the ladies looked into their fans—but it was only honest Dilkhoob, the privileged man. Miss Heartwell now sat down to sing, Tom, in the most exemplary and obsequious manner, selecting her book and turning over the leaves.