“Yes, for you will find the bungalow crammed with Tommies and their wives. Give the millionaire my love. Au revoir, Mrs. Brande. _Au revoir_, Miss Gordon. You’ll think over the burlesque, and help us in some way, won’t you?” and with a valedictory wave of his hand he dashed off. “He is a harmless lunatic, my dear,” explained the aunt to her niece, as they were carried forward side by side. “Thinks of nothing but play-acting, and always in hot water with his colonel; but no one is ever really angry with Toby, he is such a mere boy.” “He must be three and twenty, and----” “Look at the baggage just in front,” interrupted Mrs. Brande, excitedly. “These must be Captain Waring’s coolies,” and to Honor’s amazement she imperiously called a halt, and interrogated them sharply. “Yes, for a sahib--two sahibs at Nath Tal,” grunted the hill men. “What a quantity,” she cried, shamelessly passing each load in solemn review. “See what a lovely dressing-bag and a tiffin-basket. I believe”--reckoning--“no less than five portmanteaus, all solid leather, Captain C. Waring; and look at the gun-cases, and that big box between two men is saddlery--I know the shape.” “Oh, Aunt Sara, do you not think we ought to get on?” urged her companion. “We are delaying his men.” “My dear child, learn to know that there is _nothing_ a coolie likes better than being delayed. There is no hurry, and I am really interested in this young man. I want to see where he has been, where he has come from.” In answer to an imperative sentence in a tongue unknown to Honor, a grinning coolie turned his back, on which was strapped a portmanteau, for Mrs. Brande’s deliberate inspection. It proved to be covered with labels, and she read aloud with much unction and for Honor’s benefit-- “Victoria--that’s New South Wales--Paris, Brindisi, Bombay, Poonah, Arkomon, Calcutta, Galle, Lucknow. Bless us and save us, he has been staying at Government House, Calcutta, and been half over the world! See what it is to have money!” and she made a sign to her jampannis to continue her journey. Presently they passed two more coolies, lightly loaded with a rather meagre kit; these she did not think it necessary to question. “Those are the cousin’s things,” she explained contemptuously, “M. J., the hanger-on. Awful shabby, only a bag, and a couple of boxes. You could tell the owner was a poor man.” Honor made no reply. She began to have an idea that she had seen this poor young man before, or were two cousins travelling together for travelling’s sake, a common feature in India. It would not surprise her much were she to find her companion of that three-mile walk awaiting his slender baggage at Nath Tal Bungalow.