I do not know, it may have come from
giving orders to troops.
Major Brown was a V.C., and an able and distinguished soldier, but
he was anything but a warlike person. Like many among the iron men
who recovered British India, he was a man with the natural beliefs
and tastes of an old maid. In his dress he was dapper and yet
demure; in his habits he was precise to the point of the exact
adjustment of a tea-cup. One enthusiasm he had, which was of the
nature of a religion--the cultivation of pansies. And when he
talked about his collection, his blue eyes glittered like a child's
at a new toy, the eyes that had remained untroubled when the troops
were roaring victory round Roberts at Candahar.
"Well, Major," said Rupert Grant, with a lordly heartiness,
flinging himself into a chair, "what is the matter with you?"
"Yellow pansies. Coal-cellar. P. G. Northover," said the Major,
with righteous indignation.
We glanced at each other with inquisitiveness. Basil, who had his
eyes shut in his abstracted way, said simply:
"I beg your pardon."
"Fact is. Street, you know, man, pansies. On wall. Death to me.
Something. Preposterous."
We shook our heads gently. Bit by bit, and mainly by the seemingly
sleepy assistance of Basil Grant, we pieced together the Major's
fragmentary, but excited narration.
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