"Yes, dear. I have great news for you to take back to your mother. Jem
has got his commission--in a Goorkha regiment!"

The lady who spoke leant back in her chair, half turning her head, but
not looking entirely round in the direction of the only other occupant of
the room--a girl of nineteen.

"In a Goorkha regiment, Aunt Anna?" repeated the girl; "what is that? It
sounds as if he would have to black his face and wear a turban. It
suggests curry and gymkhanas (whatever they may be) and pyjamas and
bananas and other pickles. A Goorkha regiment."

There was a faint drop in her tone--on the last three words, which to
very keen ears might have signified reproach, but the hearer was not
keen--merely cunning, which is quite a different matter.

"Yes, dear. They tell me that these Indian regiments are much the best
for a young man who is likely to get on. There are so many more chances
of promotions and--er--er--distinction."

The girl was standing by the open window, and she turned her head without
otherwise moving, looking at the speaker with a pair of exceedingly
discriminating eyes.

"Bosh, my dear aunt!" she whispered confidingly to the blind-cord.

"Yes," pursued the lady, with the eager credulity of her first mother,
ever ready to believe the last speaker when belief is convenient--"Yes.
Sister Cecilia tells me that all the great men began in the Indian
Service."