The Cuthells' successor was reported to be a bachelor. Of course, Mrs. Piggott professed to have knowledge of his history even before he arrived in the station. She told Mrs. Crayfield he was a very rising civilian who was considered far too brilliant to be wasted on ordinary district administration, and therefore it was intended that he should merely mark time at Rassih pending his elevation to some important appointment.

"And one can just fancy," she added spitefully, "what a conceited prig he must be, what airs he will give himself, and how he will despise us all! I haven't a doubt he's about five foot high, with short sight and a head too big for his body, can't ride or shoot, and is probably the son of a shopkeeper at Tooting or some equally refined locality. The sort of creature who gets into the Civil Service by cramming to the last ounce. They'll be the ruin of India, because the right kind of natives know they aren't 'sahibs' and hate them accordingly, while the wrong sort take advantage of their weak points. I hope you'll sit on him well, Mrs. Crayfield."

Stella felt a faint curiosity to view a sample of the competitive system so condemned by Mrs. Piggott. She had also heard her husband deplore the modern measures that permitted Messrs. Brown, Jones and Robinson to help govern the most aristocratic country in the world. But one morning, within the orthodox and inconvenient hours decreed for first calls in the East (one of the few relics of old John Company customs), when the visiting card of Mr. Philip Ferguson Flint was brought to her, it was followed by no under-sized, top-heavy specimen such as Mrs. Piggott had described, but by a good-looking fellow not much over thirty, with friendly blue eyes, and no trace of "airs" in his bearing, unless a certain well-bred self-confidence could be imputed to conceit.

Philip Flint was taken aback in his turn. If he had thought about his chief's wife at all, save as a personage to be called upon without delay as in duty bound, he had certainly foreseen an amiable, middle-aged memsahib who would perhaps rescue him good-naturedly from the discomforts of the Government rest house until he could find suitable quarters for himself. Here, instead, was one of the prettiest girls he had ever beheld, incredibly young, unless indeed she was the daughter, not the wife, of the Commissioner.

As he entered she was standing in the centre of the big room, a slim, white-gowned figure beneath the slow-swaying punkah, and its movement stirred gently the bright little curls on her forehead—adorable curls. And what eyes, with thick, feathery lashes upcurved at the tips. Great CÆsar! what luck, after all, that Rassih should have been his portion. And to think how he had grumbled at the prospect of such exile even for a few months!

"Miss Crayfield?" he said tentatively, and at the same moment he caught sight of her wedding ring, the only ring she was wearing. "I mean"—correcting himself hastily, with a sense of acute disappointment—"Mrs. Crayfield." Solemnly they shook hands. Then their eyes met and they both laughed. That mutual, spontaneous laughter sealed an instinctive friendship. Stella waved him to a chair and took one herself. Previous to his arrival she had been feeling so languid, so dull; now everything was different; the very atmosphere became cheerful, the heat less oppressive.

"You must forgive my mistake," he said, and his blue eyes twinkled, "but it was your fault. You don't look quite like a Mrs. Commissioner, at least, not the kind I am accustomed to."

"Oh, you're not the first person to reproach me for being young," Stella told him, thinking of Mrs. Cuthell. "I really shall have to do something if the hot weather refuses to turn my hair grey."

"What did the other people say?" he inquired lightly, though in truth he felt curious to know if these same other people had been men who, like himself, were nonplussed by the sight of her beauty and youth.

"Nothing at all nice, so perhaps we'd better talk about something else. Tell me, what do you think of Rassih?"

"Until this morning I thought it a God-forsaken hole!"

She blushed, divining the bold insinuation. He watched the bright colour creep into her cheeks, delighting in her moment of embarrassment. Then he came to her aid with commonplace remarks as to the climate, the surroundings, the new railway line.

"It doesn't strike a new-comer as a tempting spot, but it must be interesting for anyone with a weakness for Indian history."

"Oh, don't begin about the mutiny and this dreadful old house!" protested Stella.

He glanced at her, puzzled. "But I wasn't thinking so much of the mutiny. Did you never hear of George Thomas?"

"George Thomas! Who was he?"

"One of the old military adventurers who paved the way for the British occupation of India. He very nearly conquered the Punjab, and established himself in this district, coining his own rupees, and manufacturing his own arms and ammunition, and he was always for his King and country. But he failed, beaten by the French under Perron, and through treachery among his native followers; also partly, I'm afraid, because at critical moments he was generally drunk!"

"Oh, poor dear!" Stella's eyes shone with interest. "And what happened to him?"

"He died on his way down country with his wife and family, broken-hearted, more or less a fugitive, but still, it is said, having certain possessions in the shape of money and jewels and shawls. His tomb has never been found, nor is it known what became of his descendants. I often wonder if any of them are living to-day. There is a story that on one occasion, when he was looking at a map of India, in which British territory was then, as now, coloured red, he ran his hand over the whole of the map and said, 'All this ought to be red.' That was the real spirit of his ambitions. I'll lend you a book about him if you like."

"Like! Please let me have it to-day—to-morrow."

He laughed at her enthusiasm. "Very well, directly my things are unpacked. His career would make a fine subject for a romance."

"Why don't you write it?"

He paused reflectively.

"Are you writing it? Do tell me," urged Stella.

"No, but I should like to try. Will you help me?"

"How on earth could I help you?"

"By allowing me to read you my efforts as they go along. There is nothing so stimulating to a would-be author as a long-suffering listener."

Wily Philip Ferguson Flint! Mentally he congratulated himself on having hit on a subtle device whereby he might secure a delightful intimacy with this captivating young person. He pictured long hours alone in her company countenanced by a reasonable excuse. The romance should be started immediately. Blessings on the memory of poor, stout-hearted, tipsy George Thomas!

"I should be only too delighted. There would be nothing long-suffering about it." Then doubt crept into her mind as to how Robert would regard such a plan. Probably he would grudge her this pleasure as he grudged her all others, with the exception of riding and petty occupations. Well, if he did she must contrive to hoodwink him somehow. For this morning at least she could enjoy Mr. Flint's society. He seemed in no hurry to go, and she told him all about the Carringtons, and her regret that, being a girl, she could not follow in their footsteps; confided to him how she had craved to reach India, disclosed, perhaps unconsciously, the vague dissatisfaction she felt with her daily life now that her wish was accomplished.

"Why did you choose to come to India?" she asked him with frank curiosity, and was thrilled sympathetically when he told her that he too had been born with an hereditary call in his blood for the East.

"I come of an old Anglo-Indian stock myself. I'm the fifth generation of my family to serve the Indian Government. It seemed somehow inevitable that I should come out here. I passed high enough for the English Civil, but I chose India without hesitation. Apart from family links with the country, I didn't fancy being mewed up in an office from morning till night, with little prospect of getting to the top of the ladder, and not enough money for sport and the kind of amusements I like. Dances and dinners and tea-parties are not in my line. Out here I can afford a good horse and unlimited cartridges, and I know I can be useful to India in my small way. I mean to end up with a Lieutenant-Governorship at least."

"You are very ambitious," exclaimed Stella; but it was as if she cried "Hear, hear."

"Call it a passion for success," he said, smiling; and Stella felt that deep determination lay beneath the smile and in his nature, and with her whole being she applauded his aspirations.

"You will get the Star of India," she said, hardly knowing why the particular reward should suddenly have recurred to her.

"A star worth striving for," he said seriously, "even if it should burn one's wings."

"Oh, how I envy you!" Tears rose to her eyes. "And I, who love India too, can do nothing—can never be useful!"

"Who knows? Your chance may come."

"If it does you may be sure I shall take it." Just then Stella looked up, to see Sher Singh standing in the doorway, and she realised that for the last few moments the man had been coughing gently to attract her attention. Was she never to be free from this perpetual spying and watching?

"What is it?" she asked impatiently in Hindustani.

"Your highness"—with a low salaam—"the sahib has sent a message. Will Fer-lint Sahib go to the office? The Commissioner-Sahib desires his presence."

Mr. Flint rose. "Well, good-bye, Mrs. Crayfield. Needs must when official devildom drives. I will tell you when the George Thomas romance is well started."

"Don't forget the book about him you promised to lend me," said Stella eagerly. But when he had gone she gave herself over to a frenzy of suspicion. Had Sher Singh told Robert that she was laughing and talking with "Fer-lint Sahib"? and had the message been sent with a purpose? She dreaded yet looked for Robert's return, so that she might know where she stood in regard to Mr. Flint's visit. Perhaps it was all her imagination. The summons might have been perfectly free from intrigue on the part of Sher Singh; yet she was uneasy, and she wandered from room to room, a victim to apprehension, her condition aggravated by the knowledge that she had found such pleasure in this new friendship, fearful as she was that it might be denied her.

To her astonished relief, when Robert appeared for the midday breakfast he was accompanied by Mr. Flint, and the two seemed already to be on excellent terms.

"I've persuaded Mr. Flint to join us at breakfast," Robert explained to her pompously; but after this he took no notice of his wife, talking "shop" persistently with his new subordinate—all about revenue, and boundaries, and agricultural prospects, of the danger of famine should the monsoon fail or be fatally late. Stella listened with interest, though perforce she was excluded from the conversation, and instinctively she understood why Mr. Flint made no attempt to draw her into it. Mr. Flint was setting himself to please his superior, for which intention she felt thankful to him; also she was dimly aware that his object was two-fold, that he meant to make friends with Robert in order that he might the more easily be permitted to make friends with her. She effaced herself purposely, and welcomed the sudden intrusion of an excited fox terrier, who rushed into the room wildly in quest of his master.

"I must apologise for Jacob," said Mr. Flint, as the dog leapt upon him with yelps of joy. "I thought I had left him safely tied up."

Robert endured the interruption with good enough grace. He did not like dogs, would not keep any himself—to Stella's disappointment. But the disturbance was trivial. He made no comment when his wife enticed Jacob to her side with succulent scraps from her plate, and soon had him seated contentedly on her lap, lolling a red tongue, casting affectionate glances at his master across the table. To Philip this seemed a good omen. Jacob as a rule was not fond of ladies, except of his own species, and his wholesale acceptance of Mrs. Crayfield's attentions was somewhat surprising. Flint was careful to ignore Jacob, much as Colonel Crayfield ignored his wife, and he was secretly entertained when, the meal over, and Mrs. Crayfield rose from the table, Jacob trotted after her into the drawing-room, leaving his master to smoke and continue his talk with the Commissioner. Master Jacob was no fool; he knew when he had found an entrancing companion.

The morning had been a success, but Philip took his dog back to the Rest House that afternoon with feelings divided. To him the situation in regard to the Crayfields was now clear enough—an elderly man married to a young and beautiful wife whose heart was still whole, the husband loftily secure in his authority, his ownership. There was danger in prospect unless he could be certain of keeping his head; and as he thought of the girl's beauty, her youth, her attractions, and her obvious interest in himself, he feared for his own strength of mind. It might be more than wise to abandon all schemes for meetings that were not inevitable; but the temptation was strong, and he knew very well that to a certain extent he should yield to it. All the same, he would have to walk warily. An entanglement at this stage of his career might be fatal to his advancement. Colonel Crayfield was hardly the type of a complacent husband, and he had known cases during his service when appearances only had brought about irrevocable disaster to foolish, flirtatious couples who in deed as well as in purpose were innocent of actual harm.

After all, with the cynicism of circumstances, it was Colonel Crayfield himself who made matters easy. He had taken a fancy to his new assistant, invited him frequently to singles at tennis, and never suspected that Flint let him win, or beat him by such a small margin that the defeat had a stimulating effect. Stella sat by and watched these games, Jacob reposing on the edge of her skirt, or more often on her lap. Robert bore with the presence of Jacob, unless he ran after the balls or barked piercingly at squirrels. Then the Commissioner shouted abuse at "that damned dog," and Flint administered chastisement, ostensibly severe, in reality mild, that caused Jacob to retire affronted beneath Stella's chair.

When the swift Indian dusk descended, Robert, who perspired abnormally under exertion, would hasten indoors for a bath and a change, with Sher Singh in attendance, unwitting of the fact that his wife and young Flint invariably sat on side by side in the hot, scented darkness as happy companions, their fellowship ripening dangerously with each hour they could compass alone one with the other. Skilfully Flint had brought the George Thomas romance into play. He talked of it openly before Colonel Crayfield, and one night, when he was dining with the Crayfields, he confessed he had brought one or two chapters with him that he proposed, with their consent, to inflict after dinner on his host and hostess. Robert grunted contemptuously, Stella had the acumen to agree with polite indifference, and when the reading began Robert at once went to sleep and snored. The chapters were short, and, truth to tell, of little literary value, though written in easy style with a talented pen, costing the author no effort. But Stella was deeply impressed and interested. She longed to hear more of the hero, the young man of high birth who had got into such a scrape at home that he was forced to flee the country, and found himself in the service of a treacherous old native lady, the Begum Somru, whose commander-in-chief at the time was an Irish adventurer, one George Thomas. And while Robert slept and snored, Philip read and Stella listened. Then, the manuscript laid aside, they talked India in subdued voices to their hearts' content. This programme was repeated more than once, until Robert turned restive.

"Bother the boy!" he said. "Why does he want to write all this rubbish—wasting his time!"

"It's his way of amusing himself," Stella suggested carelessly, "like me with my painting and fancy work."

"Well, it doesn't amuse me to hear it, or you either, I should imagine."

"I confess I'm rather interested in the story. I feel I want to know what happens next."

"Then let him spout it at some other time, when I'm not present. I suppose there'll be no peace till it's finished. Give him a gentle hint."

"I'll try. But won't it hurt his feelings?"

"Not any more than my going to sleep directly he starts reading, I should think."

Therefore, on the next occasion, before the manuscript could be unfolded, Stella went to the piano.

"No reading to-night, Mr. Flint. We're going to have some music. I want you to hear how my husband can sing. Come along, Robert." Her fingers rippled lightly over the keys, and Robert sang readily, lustily, song after song, much to his own enjoyment, and presumably to that of the guest, who applauded with tact, and requested encores till the performer, in high good humour, declared he was hoarse and could sing no more. Then Mrs. Crayfield continued the concert, and Philip sat gazing his fill at the vision she presented, the light from the wall-lamp behind her gilding her hair, her voice sweet and true, causing his heart to ache with ominous yearning. He felt confident she found pleasure in his friendship, yet to-night he was puzzled by her attitude until, the music put away and the piano closed, she said with an assumption of matronly indulgence: "I'm afraid we haven't considered poor George Thomas. How is he getting on?"

"Oh, pretty well, thank you."

"Has the slave girl escaped?"

"Not yet; it's rather difficult; but I mustn't bore you any more with my attempts at fiction." Purposely he spoke in a tone of humble discouragement; he was feeling his way.

"Bring the stuff over to-morrow before we play tennis," suggested Robert magnanimously, "and the memsahib will listen; stories amuse her."

"Oh, may I? But," turning to Stella, "won't it interfere with your afternoon siesta?"

"Not a bit," Mrs. Crayfield assured him. "I never can sleep in the daytime, but Robert must have a rest. I tell him he works far too hard."

"Young bully, aren't you?" was Colonel Crayfield's playful retort, laying his hand on his wife's shoulder. "Take my advice, Flint, and when you marry don't choose a wife from the schoolroom."

"Judging by your example, sir," chaffed Philip, "one might do worse."

"Well, all things considered, I suppose I've been lucky. Good night. I shall expect to lick you to-morrow at tennis after you've exhausted yourself and my wife with your intellectual exertions."

"Not if I can help it," said Philip, diplomatically defiant.