A rickshaw (the popular conveyance in the Himalayan hill-stations) is a kind of glorified bath-chair or grown-up perambulator, light and smart, and drawn and pushed by four men; it flies along flat roads and down hills as rapidly as a pony-cart, especially if your Jampannis are racing another team. Mrs. Sladen’s rickshaw was old; the hood, of cheap American leather, was cracked and blistered, it had a list to one side, and her Jampannis wore the shabby clothes of last year--but, then, their mistress did the same! As they dashed down hill, they nearly came into collision with a smart Dyke’s cee-spring vehicle, and a quartette of men in brilliant (Rickett’s) blue and yellow liveries. The rickshaw contained an elderly lady of ample proportions, with flaxen hair and a good-humoured handsome face surmounting two chins. This was Mrs. Brande, the wife of Pelham Brande, Esq., a distinguished member of the Civil Service. “Kubbardar, kubbardar!--take care, take care!” she shrieked. Then to Mrs. Sladen, “My gracious! how you do fly! but you are a light weight. Well, come alongside of me, my dear, and tell me all the news; this place is as dull as ditch-water, so few people here. Next year, I shan’t come up so early.” “I believe every house is taken,” said Mrs. Sladen, cheerfully, as they rolled along side by side. “Even the Cedars, and the Monastery, and Haddon Hall.” “You don’t say so! The chimneys smoke beyond anything. I pity whoever is going there.” “A bachelor, I believe, a Captain Waring, has taken it for the season, as it’s close to the mess.” “In the regiment that’s marching up--the Scorpions?” “No; I believe he is out of the service, and coming up for the hot weather, and to try and get some shooting in Thibet later on.” “Then he must have money?” wagging her head sagaciously. “Yes, I dare say he has. I’m told it is going to be a gay season.” “That’s what they always say,” replied Mrs. Brande, impatiently. “I’ll believe it when I see it. But I did hear that Mrs. Kane is expecting a brother that is a baronet: he’s coming up to see the hills; he has been globe-trotting all winter. And so you have been up with the Duchess--she’s all alone, isn’t she?” “Yes, for the present; but she will soon have a niece with her--a niece from Calcutta.” “A niece!” sharply, and leaning half out of the rickshaw. “What niece?” “Her brother’s daughter, Miss Paske; she is said to be very pretty and accomplished, and attractive in every way.” “You need not tell me _that_!” in accents of concentrated contempt. “Is Mrs. Langrishe the woman to saddle herself with an ugly girl? She’ll be having grand parties now; all the rich young fellows, and the _baronet_--no poor subalterns, you’ll see--and she will get her off her hands in no time. Just the sort of thing she will like, and a fine excuse for having packs of men dangling about the house.” “Oh, Mrs. Brande, you know that is not her style,” expostulated her companion.