CAPT. M. 'Mornin', Mrs. Gadsby. How's the Infant Phenomenon and the Proud Proprietor? MRS. G. You'll find them in the front veranda; go through the house. I'm Martha just now. CAPT. M. 'Cumbered about with cares of _khitmatgars?_ I fly. _Passes into front veranda, where_ GADSBY _is watching_ GADSBY JUNIOR, _aged ten months, crawling about the matting._ CAPT. M. What's the trouble, Gaddy--spoiling an honest man's Europe morning this way? (_Seeing_ G. JUNIOR.) By Jove, that yearling's comin' on amazingly! Any amount of bone below the knee there. CAPT. G. Yes, he's a healthy little scoundrel. Don't you think his hair's growing? M. Let's have a look. Hi! Hst! Come here, General Luck, and we'll report on you. MRS. G. (_Within._) What absurd name will you give him next? Why do you call him that? M. Isn't he our Inspector-General of Cavalry? Doesn't he come down in his seventy-two perambulator every morning the Pink Hussars parade? Don't wriggle, Brigadier. Give us your private opinion on the way the third squadron went past. 'Trifle ragged, weren't they? G. A bigger set of tailors than the new draft I don't wish to see. They've given me more than my fair share--knocking the squadron out of shape. It's sickening! M. When you're in command, you'll do better, young 'un. Can't you walk yet? Get my finger and try. (_To_ G.) 'Twon't hurt his hocks, will it? G. Oh, no. Don't let him flop, though, or he'll lick all the blacking off your boots. MRS. G. (_Within._) Who's destroying my son's character? M. And my Godson's. I'm ashamed of you, Gaddy. Punch your father in the eye, Jack! Don't you stand it! Hit him again! G. (_Sotto voce._) Put The _Butcha_ down and come to the end of the veranda. I'd rather the Wife didn't hear--just now. M. You look awf'ly serious. Anything wrong? G. 'Depends on your view entirely. I say, Jack, you won't think more hardly of me than you can help, will you? Come further this way.--The fact of the matter is, that I've made up my mind--at least I'm thinking seriously of--cutting the Service. M. Hwhatt? G. Don't shout. I'm going to send in my papers. M. You! Are you mad? G. No--only married. M. Look here! What's the meaning of it all? You never intend to leave _us_. You _can't_. Isn't the best squadron of the best regiment of the best cavalry in all the world good enough for you? G. (_Jerking his head over his shoulder_.) She doesn't seem to thrive in this God-forsaken country, and there's The _Butcha_ to be considered and all that, you know. M. Does she say that she doesn't like India? G. That's the worst of it. She won't for fear of leaving me. M. What are the Hills made for? G. Not for _my_ wife at any rate. M. You know too much, Gaddy, and--I don't like you any the better for it! G. Never mind that. She wants England, and The _Butcha_ would be all the better for it. I'm going to chuck. You don't understand.