"It appears," he said sharply, while he was stirring his tea, "that Jem
Agar has got his commission in a Goorkha regiment."
Now Mrs. Glynde knew more about the organisation of the heavenly bands
than of the administration of the Indian army. She did not know whether
to rejoice or lament, and having been sharply pulled up--any time during
the last twenty years--for doing one or the other in the wrong place, she
meekly took soundings.
"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.
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