It was a Sunday afternoon in full July, and a small party was seated
under the spreading mulberry tree on the Monteiths' lawn. General
Claviger was of the number, that well-known constructor of
scientific frontiers in India or Africa; and so was Dean Chalmers,
the popular preacher, who had come down for the day from his London
house to deliver a sermon on behalf of the Society for Superseding
the Existing Superstitions of China and Japan by the Dying Ones of
Europe. Philip was there, too, enjoying himself thoroughly in the
midst of such good company, and so was Robert Monteith, bleak and
grim as usual, but deeply interested for the moment in dividing
metaphysical and theological cobwebs with his friend the Dean, who
as a brother Scotsman loved a good discussion better almost than
he loved a good discourse. General Claviger, for his part, was
congenially engaged in describing to Bertram his pet idea for a
campaign against the Madhi and his men, in the interior of the
Soudan. Bertram rather yawned through that technical talk; he was a
man of peace, and schemes of organised bloodshed interested him no
more than the details of a projected human sacrifice, given by a
Central African chief with native gusto, would interest an average
European gentleman. At last, however, the General happened to say
casually, "I forget the exact name of the place I mean; I think it's
Malolo; but I have a very good map of all the district at my house
down at Wanborough."

"What! Wanborough in Northamptonshire?" Bertram exclaimed with
sudden interest. "Do you really live there?"