In Old Madras by B.M. Croker — Read

Although Mallender sat with his writing case open before him, his eyes wandered over the wide prospect commanded by the bungalow. What a picture of tragic solitude! In the foreground a mass of overgrown ruins, beyond these, the sun-baked plain, with its harsh orange soil, and far-away range of dim blue hills, -- the whole a scene of ardent melancholy. His thoughts now turned to his own affairs, and his reflections were gloomy; he realised that his impulsive desire for results, had driven him to waste time and energies in hopeless directions, -- of which the present situation was a specimen! Why, why, had fate singled him out for this adventure? He was not one inch "forrader" than months ago when full of high hopes he had embarked in Tilbury Docks. Well, he must pull himself together, decide upon a plan of action, and get out of this God-forsaken place as soon as possible: drawing the paper towards him, he began to write. Just at this moment, a visitor appeared between the stone piers of entrance to the little compound; a sturdy broad-shouldered man of thirty, dressed in kharki. He had a pleasant clean-shaven face, a square chin, and resolute jaw; as he took off his topee, he displayed a crop of thick brown hair, cut "_en brosse_."

"I say," he began rather awkwardly, "you'll excuse me I hope, but my father, General Beamish, heard of your arrival -- of course everything is known in this place," and he grinned, "and that you were a British officer; so he sent me over to ask if you would be so good as to call and see him?"