Mark hastened to place a chair for his aunt, into which she gently sank, keeping her eyes steadily fixed on his as she did so, and gradually narrowing her gaze to a cat-like glint. “Do you know that I rather _like_ the idea!” she remarked, after a momentary silence. “I think it is a shocking thing for a young man to waste his life, lounging in clubs gossipping and gambling, or playing a game on the back of a pony. Travelling improves the mind and enlarges the ideas.” Here, catching sight of Mr. Pollitt’s face of angry scorn, she lost no time in adding, “You know, it is all the fashion to travel, it’s only the second-rate people and nobodies who stay at home. Lady Grace and Lord Kenneth are going out to India this cold weather, so is the Duke of Saltminster, the Marquis and Marchioness of Tordale, and crowds of other smart people.” Smart people were to Mr. Pollitt, as his crafty wife knew, the very salt of the earth; and his expression changed from that of repressed fury to grave attention. “India! Perhaps I would not mind so much,” he admitted, after a pause. “The boy was born there, and he could look up his father. Yes, and he might have some shooting, and pick up a few tigers, and nice acquaintances and companions.” “Oh, but, of course, Mark could not travel alone, dear. He must have a pleasant and experienced----” “Bear-leader or keeper; or what would you say to a chaperon?” broke in her husband. “My dearest!” she gravely expostulated. “You know perfectly well that it would be frightfully dull for the poor boy roaming about the country with no one to keep him company, not knowing where to go, or what to say. Now Clarence,” and she hesitated. “Yes--now Clarence. What now?” sharply. “Clarence,” speaking very distinctly, “was stationed in India for eight years. He is an experienced Anglo-Indian, has hundreds of friends, talks Hindostani fluently, and could get no end of shooting and introductions to native _princes_” (great emphasis on princes). “He would be a capital guide for Mark.” “Umph!” with a short laugh. “I’m not so sure of that, Mrs. Pollitt.” “Oh, my dear Dan, he is perfectly steady now. Why, he is thirty-five, and has sown his wild oats. I never quite believe in these wonderfully good young men,” and she shot a swift glance at Mark. “Except Mark, of course, and he ought to have been a parson, and,” with a little sneer, “he may yet become a missionary.” “But India is no novelty to Clarence,” protested Mr. Pollitt; “and, by all accounts, he made it too hot to hold him. Mark can easily tack himself on to some party of friends, and do the tour with them. You say that the Rothmores----”