to and he was none the worse. He has got his pension—he came home the other day; he would do anything for me.'
'He called to you in the night?' said Lyon, much startled.
'That's the interesting point. Now what was it? It wasn't his ghost, because he wasn't dead. It wasn't himself, because he couldn't. It was some thing or other! You see India's a strange country—there's an element of the mysterious: the air is full of things you can't explain.'
They passed out of the dining-room, and Colonel Capadose, who went among the first, was separated from Lyon; but a minute later, before they reached the drawing-room, he joined him again. 'Ashmore tells me who you are. Of course I have often heard of you—I'm very glad to make your acquaintance; my wife used to know you.'
'I'm glad she remembers me. I recognised her at dinner and I was afraid she didn't.'
'Ah, I daresay she was ashamed,' said the Colonel, with indulgent humour.
'Ashamed of me?' Lyon replied, in the same key.
'Wasn't there something about a picture? Yes; you painted her portrait.'
'Many times,' said the artist; 'and she may very well have been ashamed of what I made of her.'
'Well, I wasn't, my dear sir; it was the sight of that picture, which you were so good as to present to her, that made me first fall in love with her.'
'Do you mean that one with the children—cutting bread and butter?'
