“Yes, down in all the heat, and for a far more worthy object,” glancing at Honor. “You may rely on me, I shall see that you are recommended for a D.S.O.” “What an impudent boy you are!” retorted the matron; and half turning her head, she said to her companion, “Honor, this is Mr. Joy--he is _quite_ mad. Mr. Joy, this is my niece, Miss Gordon, just out from England” (her invariable formula). Mr. Joy swept off his topee to his saddle-bow. “And what’s the news?” continued Mrs. Brande. “Has Mrs. Langrishe’s niece come up?” she asked peremptorily. “Yes, arrived two days ago--the early bird, you see,” he added, with a malicious twinkle of his little eyes. “I don’t see; and every one knows that the worm was a _fool_. What is she like?” “Like a fairy, and dances to match,” replied Mr. Joy, with enthusiasm. “Come, come; what do you know about fairies? Is she pretty?” “Yes, and full of life, and go, and chic.” “Cheek! I’m not surprised at _that_, seeing she is Mrs. Langrishe’s own niece.” “Chic is a French word, don’t you know? and means--well, I can’t exactly explain. Anyway, Miss Paske will be a great acquisition.” “How?” “Oh, you will soon be able to judge for yourself. She acts first class, and plays the banjo like an angel.” “What nonsense you talk, Toby Joy! Whoever heard of an angel playing anything but a ’arp.” “By the way, Miss Gordon,” said Toby, turning suddenly to her, “I hope you act.” “No; I have never acted in my life.” “Oh, that is nothing! All women are born actresses. Surely, then, you sing--you have a singing face?” “I am sorry to say that, in that case, my face belies me.” “Well, at any rate,” with an air of desperation, “you could dance in a burlesque?” “Get away!” screamed Mrs. Brande. “Dance in a burlesque! I am glad her mother does not hear you. Never mind him, Honor; he is crazy about acting and dancing, and thinks of nothing else.” “All work and no _plays_, make Jack a dull boy,” he retorted. “Who else is up?” demanded Mrs. Brande, severely. “Oh, the usual set, I believe. Lloyds, Clovers, Valpys, Dashwoods, a signalling class, a standing camp, a baronet; there is also a millionaire just about half way. You’ll find a fellow called Waring at Nath Tal Dâk Bungalow--he was in the service once, and has now come in for tons of money, and is a gentleman at large--very keen about racing and sport. I expect he will live at our mess.” “Then he is not married?” said Mrs. Brande, in a tone of unaffected satisfaction. “Not he! Perish the thought! He has a companion, a young chap he takes about with him, a sort of hanger-on and poor relation.” “What is he like? Of course I mean the millionaire?” “Oh, _of course_,” with an affable nod; “cheery, good-looking sort of chap, that would be an A1 hero of a novel.” Mrs. Brande glanced swiftly at Honor, and heaved a gentle sigh of contentment as she exclaimed-- “Well, I suppose we ought to be moving on.”