"What is that, dear?" she inquired.

"The Goorkhas are native Indian soldiers," explained the Rector. "Very
good fellows, no doubt. They get all the hard knocks in small frontier
wars and none of the half-pence. What the woman can have been thinking
of, I don't know."

Mrs. Glynde was anxiously glancing towards Dora, who was nicking the nose
of a sportive kitten with the tassel of the tea-cosy.

"And will he go to India?" she asked, with laudable mental grovellings in
the mire of her own ignorance.

"Course he will."

"And," added Dora cheerfully, "he will come home covered with glory and
medals, with a weakness for strong pickles and hot language--I mean hot
pickles and strong language."

"But," said Mrs. Glynde rather breathlessly, "are they never stationed in
England?"

"No--never," replied her husband snappishly.

Mrs. Glynde had a pink patch on each cheek--precisely on the spot whore
two such patches had appeared years ago when the doctor spoke so
strongly. Those patches were maternal, and only appeared when Dora's
affairs, spiritual or temporal, were concerned.