Slowly, monotonously for Philip the months dragged on, unmarked by any special events of a personal character. At intervals he heard from Miss Baker. First she reported her safe arrival at the Mission headquarters, having considered it "only right" to go there rather than take advantage of the more comfortable hospitality offered by the Magistrate and his wife. But apparently this meritorious attitude was not fully understood or appreciated by her hardworking hosts, for Miss Baker complained that though the Mission people were always desperately busy themselves they made no real use of the services she was so ready to render; one of them had actually advocated her joining the Station Club that she might obtain some distraction! The next letter came from the Magistrate's bungalow, where Miss Baker was being nursed over an attack, her first attack, of malarial fever; at the Mission House, it seemed, no one had time to look after a white patient! The Magistrate's wife had most opportunely come to the rescue.... As soon as a passage could be secured Miss Baker intended to go home. On the whole, she confessed, she felt that her visit to India had not been quite the success she had anticipated. Wherever she went she seemed only to get in the way—and she had meant to be so useful! English people in India wasted their energies over things that did not greatly matter, and in consequence had no time for more vital questions. Later on, perhaps, she might come back, and with better results; in any case she had gathered ample material for her book, which she would begin on the voyage.... She wrote to Philip from board ship, and again from her father's house in Mayfair. The letters still contained criticisms aimed at British administration in India, but through them all there ran a pathetic little undercurrent of self-distrust that reached Philip's sympathy; and her never-failing remembrance of their brief companionship touched him—always her love to Jacob, and how was the chestnut pony, and the old bearer, and did he recollect this, that, and the other? Also when was he coming home? A few mails later (great excitement) she had met Lady Lane-Johnson, his sister, at a big literary gathering, quite by accident; they had begun to talk about India, and then of course had discovered, etc., etc.

These letters, though Philip sometimes felt it an effort to answer them, were welcome during the dreary routine of duty, as inspection followed inspection, journey upon journey, by road or by rail, from one famine-smitten area to another. The battle with death and want continued through the long, hot days and nights, until, as though with belated compassion, nature at last stepped in, and a strong monsoon swept up from the coast, allaying epidemics, washing away disease and dirt, reviving energy and hope; and if the work was still as strenuous in its way, it was at least work that was spurred by relief and thankfulness in place of dread and despair.

With the cessation of the rains Flint felt free to take a breathing-space. His leave granted for September, he sought a popular station, that, not being the headquarters of a Provincial Government, was in a measure exempt from official etiquette and certain irksome observances that prevailed in the more important health resorts. Surima, its dwellings perched like a flock of white birds on the slopes of the high hills, was notorious for its gaiety and its gregarious gatherings. Here assembled merchants from the great ports, lonely ladies whose health and spirits suffered from the heat and the dullness of the plains, subalterns intent on "a good time," holiday-makers of every service and calling, and an abundance of pretty girls....

Philip selected Surima for his leave because he felt it might be possible to lose his identity for the time being in such a motley crowd. He need make no calls; Government House with a visitors' book and commands to social functions was non-existent. His presence would not be noted. He intended to loaf, to spend long hours in the life-giving air on the hill-sides, perhaps do a little shooting—jungle fowl, a bear or two, possibly a leopard. He would have ease and leisure in which to make up his mind whether to sink back to the level of humdrum district administration until his first pension was due and he could leave India altogether, or set himself to regain his position in the front ranks of competitors for high office. He realised that he was overworked, that his mental outlook was hardly to be trusted at present, deranged as it had been by the distressing affair at Rassih. Given time and rest he might manage, in a measure, to make a fresh start and to put the past behind him....

To his disgust the Club chambers at Surima were full, and he was forced to find temporary quarters in a fashionable hotel that occupied a central position. It was close on the dinner hour when he arrived, and as he changed into evening clothes he found it difficult to realise that for a full month he would be master of his time, able to follow his own inclinations. With a sense of personal freedom he strolled into the dining-room only to be confronted by a scene that, at first glance, made him query—was he, by any chance, in a lunatic asylum instead of a hotel?

The tables were crowded with a chattering throng garbed in a variety of fantastic costumes, a host of masqueraders. He beheld a devil complete with horns and tail; a red Indian; an aerial being all wings and gossamer; figures enveloped in dominoes; others painted, patched, bewigged—all laughing and talking and eating. He felt like a sparrow that had strayed into an aviary of tropical birds. Humbly he slipped into an empty seat beside a stout youth draped in a leopard skin, with a wreath on his brow! "Bacchus," or whatever mythological character this individual imagined he represented, made way for the stranger good-naturedly.

"Got up just in time for the ball!" he shouted, as though it were a matter for the heartiest congratulation.

"Is there a ball?" inquired Philip, dismayed. What a superfluous question!

"Rather! The fancy ball of the season. Every soul in the place will be at it. Know many people up here?"

"Nobody—that I am aware of."

"Soon cure that complaint! Keen on dancing?"

"Not particularly; and dancing hasn't been exactly encouraged where I come from!" He thought grimly of desolate camps, of relief works, bare plains and stricken villages, of all the stress and the strain of the last year. What could be farther from festivity!

"Some beastly little station, I suppose," assumed his companion sympathetically. "If it wasn't for places like Surima we should all rot and die. I come from a hole sixty miles off the railway; only seven of us all told including the women; just a small hell upon earth. I put in for 'three months' urgent private affairs,' my only chance," he grinned. "Luckily they asked no awkward questions. Next week my leave's up, worse luck!"

He fell to eating dejectedly, but soon added in a hopeful tone: "Anyway, I'm going to enjoy my last hours. Now, if you want introductions remember I'm your man. No dog-in-the-manger about J. D. Horniblow!" He looked round the room. "Plenty to choose from if you're not over particular."

"Thanks, don't bother about me," said Philip indifferently. "Bed is more in my line than a ball to-night."

"Oh! but you must see what we can produce in the way of beauty, even if you don't want to dance. All this lot here are nothing compared with——" He began to reel off names with impudent comments on each.

Philip paid small attention, till he became aware that the chatterbox was describing with enthusiasm the charms of a particular lady, over whom, he asserted, the whole place was crazy; the name came to his ears with the effect of a pistol shot....

He stammered out: "Who—who did you say—Mrs.—Mrs. Crayfield?"

"Yes, Mrs. Crayfield. She's the rage, absolutely divine. She and her friend Mrs. Matthews carry everything before them; not that Mrs. M. can compare with Mrs. C., though little Mrs. M. is fetching enough in her own way. I might manage to introduce you. I'll try, if you like, but they're in the General's set, and that's rather a close preserve. The old boy fancies himself no end with Mrs. C.; and young Nash, his aide-de-camp, poodles for Mrs. Matthews, so it's very convenient all round."

Flint writhed in silence. Was there another Mrs. Crayfield? Soon he would know, and he tried to be deaf to the rattle of this jackanapes.

Joining the tail of the crowd that surged into the ballroom after dinner, he took up a position against the whitewashed wall that was decorated with flimsy festoons of pink and blue muslin, and watched the revellers filling their programmes, chaffing, laughing. What fools they looked! How could grown-up people be so idiotic.... Yet, in justice, he reminded himself that the majority of them must have endured the hardships inseparable from exile, trials of climate, and sickness, and separation, even actual danger to life and person; that they would go back to these conditions, grumbling no doubt, but refreshed and strengthened to endure them again by such frivolities, this pathetic aping of "smart society" that would be regarded with contemptuous amusement by its superior prototype at home. How Dorothy Baker would have censured the scene, simply because it was laid in India, where, of course, none of her compatriots deserved, or should desire, frivolous recreation! Not one of these merrymakers but would face death without hesitation should the necessity arise; and in a community all more or less of one class there was bound to be scandal, with far less reason very often than in their own country, where wickedness could be hidden successfully.... He almost forgave the harmless enough gossip he had heard at the dinner table, even endeavoured to tolerate his would-be friend who buzzed round him, so important as "one in the know," still offering introductions.

"Little Miss Green, now—that girl over there dressed as a butterfly? Not much to look at, I grant you. With her figure she ought to have gone as a blue-bottle, but she can dance, and first go-off in a place like this you have to take what you can get. She and her sisters rely on the new-comers, thankful for any kind of partners; sensible girls! Easy enough to drop them when you get into the swim. Or there's Mrs. Bray; only her husband's jealous. Of course they're known as the donkeys. He won't let her dance with anyone more than once. There was a row at the last Cinderella——"

Flint bestirred himself. "Please don't trouble. I don't want to dance. I'll just look on for a bit." He nodded a polite but determined dismissal, and was turning away when his tormentor exclaimed:

"Ah! Here we are! Now look. Here she comes, the General in tow, of course, and half a dozen other adorers. She's a fine hand at driving a team!"

Flint held his breath, his heart seemed to rise in his throat as the crowd parted slightly and a group came through one of the doorways. To the swing of a waltz he saw Stella—yes, Stella—advancing down the long, shining floor of the ballroom, radiant, light-hearted, attended by a little court of men mostly in uniform. He could not have told how she was dressed, he merely had an impression of floating pink drapery, gleams of silver; she looked to him taller, less girlish, in a way changed; her bearing held a gay confidence.... How different from his last sight of her—a wan, despairing figure, huddled weeping in a chair! She had forgotten him; their love had been but an episode in her young life, while for his part how he had suffered!—sacrificed so much. He ought to have expected it, should have realised that, child as she was, her heart must heal quickly from a wound that, though painful enough no doubt at the time, had not gone deep. Youth had asserted its claim; pleasure, social success, admiration, had consoled her successfully. He strove for her sake to feel glad, to stem the storm of rage and self-pity that seized him. Devil take the handsome, elderly satyr who was speaking in her ear.... She was smiling at him; it was unbearable. Now she was hidden by the whirling, throng. He waited, morose and miserable, planning to leave the bright scene before she should discover his presence, to clear out of Surima at dawn, and go where he could assert his claim to advancement, pick up the threads of ambition, push and trample and fight his way fiercely to the top. It was not too late, the way was still open....

Yet, unable to tear himself away, he stood, a stiff, black figure against the wall, his eyes scanning the dancers, until presently she passed him in the arms of her distinguished-looking partner, the scarlet of whose coat clashed harshly with the rose-colour of her gown. As they danced they were talking and laughing. In his mind Philip called to her: "Stella! Stella!"; he felt as if the whole room must hear him.... The pair halted at the opposite side of the room. The man was bending his iron-grey head towards her; there was force, personality in the well set-up figure and the bold features that but just escaped coarseness. He was taking Stella's fan from her hand with a familiar, proprietary air that to Philip was maddening; he lost hold of his high intentions and crossed the room deliberately, making his way among the dancers regardless of their indignant protests, the collisions he caused; as far as he was concerned they might all have been phantoms—he simply walked through them.

Then he stood before Stella, before the woman he loved, bowed like any casual acquaintance, and heard himself saying:

"Mrs. Crayfield, have you forgotten me? My name is Flint."

Startled, she looked up, and he saw the colour drain from her lips and cheeks. The General stiffened, clearly resenting the intrusion.

"I've just got up from the plains," continued Philip pleasantly, though he found it hard to steady his voice. "I had no idea you were at Surima. It's a long time since we last met, isn't it?"

"Yes," she said faintly, not looking at him; "a long time——"

He knew that for the moment, at any rate, he was being a kill-joy, a ghost at the feast, calling up the past, spoiling her pleasure. Yet the consciousness was mingled with a sense of revengeful satisfaction that he could not control. Her passing vexation of spirit was as nothing compared with the tortures of his own.

"Come along, Mrs. Crayfield," the General was moving his feet, impatient to be off again, "we shall miss the last part of the waltz." He made as if to place his arm about her waist.

Philip turned aside, not waiting for her to look at or speak to him further. Blindly he made his way from the ballroom, his thoughts, his sensations in confusion, only to find himself in the midst of a babbling concourse of natives outside, bearers of the canoe-shaped conveyances in which ladies, and even a few men, were borne to the dance; neighing ponies were clustered by the railings; it was all jostle and noise. He walked round to the side of the hotel and discovered an empty veranda, a quiet refuge where he could smoke and attempt to think calmly. As he leaned on the railing his racked nerves welcomed the cold night air, the star-lit peace, the scent and the faint stir of the pine trees. Beneath the ramshackle building sloped the wooded hill-side; far, far below lay the wide plains, dark and boundless as an ocean. Right and left in endless majesty stretched the mountains, and back in ever-rising ranges to the snow peaks, "the home of the gods." His thoughts went loosely adrift; that little crowd of human beings dancing, philandering in the ballroom, intent on their enjoyment, their fleeting loves and hates; whose lives were less than infinitesimal fractions of seconds compared with the ages! Who could grudge them their "little day" while it lasted? Nature had no pity, no sympathy for the struggles, the temptations, the sorrows, the pleasures of the ever-passing multitude of human insects loving and dancing and fighting through their short moments of darkness or sunshine.... What was love, what was sin? What difference could it make whether any of them failed or succeeded, did what seemed to them right or wrong! Nothing really mattered.... Should the human race be swept from the face of the earth, the hills and the plains, the seas and the sun, the moon and the stars, would go on to the end of Time....

Footsteps and voices broke in on Flint's wild, if hardly original, reflections. He recognised that a couple intent on privacy were groping their way into the dark retreat. He heard the grating of chairs on the stone floor, caught snatches of talk as he hid himself instinctively in the shadow of a pillar.

"All right?" the man's tone was full of tender concern. "You won't feel cold? Now listen—give me your hand, your dear little hand! I must tell you. I can't wait any longer. You know, don't you, darling?"

There came a tearful, agitated response. "Yes, but there will be such a row. Mother and father will never understand——"

"Oh! they will, when they see we're determined. Don't be frightened. We've only got to stick to it, hold on. You do love me, sweetheart, don't you?"

Philip slunk round the pillar and left the lovers to themselves. How he envied the two young creatures!—their path clear before them save for the frail barrier of parental prudence, which, of course, in the end would break down. It was all so idyllic, so natural. What a contrast to his own dark outlook where love was concerned.... In bitter envy he loitered on the pathway outside, beset by a longing to return to the ballroom that he might catch just one more glimpse of Stella, whatever the cost, before turning his back on Surima at dawn.

In a few moments he was standing among a group of spectators in one of the doorways, his eyes anxiously searching the crowd of dancers. But in vain; she was not in the ballroom.

"Hullo! This is luck. Thought you'd gone bye-bye!" His importunate acquaintance of the dinner-table was pushing a way to his side. "Flint is your name, isn't it?"

Philip nodded absently.

"Well, Mrs. Matthews would like me to introduce you; she says she knows all about you. Dark horse, you are! You never let on when I mentioned her at dinner. It was only when she got hold of me just now and said: 'Mr. Horniblow, you know everybody, can you point me out a new arrival whose name is Mr. Flint,' that I smelt a rat, and of course I made straight for you. There she is. Come on now, quick, or we shall miss her."

He grabbed Philip's coat sleeve and dragged him forward. Before he could resist he was being presented to a lively-looking little lady all sequins and red and gold tissue, and a tambourine.

"That was very clever of you, Mr. Horniblow," she said brightly to the triumphant go-between. "Thank you so much."

She turned in pretty apology to Philip. "Don't think me too bold," she seemed to be pitching her voice high of intention, "perhaps you've forgotten me? But I remember you!" She shot him a meaning glance, and he could not but take the hint.

He feigned pleasure. "This is a surprise! But when we last met you weren't a gypsy, or—or a Spanish dancer—which must be my excuse for not recognising you at once." He offered her his arm.

With a charming smile she waved away her late partner, a diffident young soldier easily shelved for the moment; and talking gaily of the dance, of the dresses, of anything, she guided Philip to the platform, of which the front seats were filled with chaperones and partnerless girls. Well at the back, screened by this rampart of female forms, stood a sofa, safe from listening ears. They took possession of it.

"Neatly done!" exclaimed Mrs. Matthews, sinking to her seat.

"Very," returned Philip, "but I don't quite understand——"

"You are Mr. Flint, Mr. Philip Flint?"

"Certainly. That is my name."

"Well, Mrs. Crayfield has gone home."

"Oh? Wasn't she feeling fit?" he inquired, apparently unmoved.

She glanced at him in rather resentful surprise. "Now don't be tiresome," she said quickly. "I know all about it, and we haven't much time to talk. I can't throw over any more partners. Stella was worried, upset, at seeing you so unexpectedly. I said I'd find you and explain. She's staying with me; we were girls together, you know. I dare say Stella has told you about me, Maud Verrall?"

"Yes, of course." Of course he knew about Maud Verrall, and The Court and The Chestnuts, and Grandmamma and the Aunts; had any detail of Stella's childhood, imparted to him by her, faded from his mind!

"We only got into touch with each other again at the beginning of this hot weather; somehow we'd stopped writing. But when I settled to come up here I wrote and asked if I could break my journey with the Crayfields for a few days. What an awful hole Rassih is! I found Stella half dead. That old brute, Colonel Crayfield, ought to be shot, and his horrible servant too. Between them they had nearly killed the poor girl."

Philip moved uneasily, and drew in his breath. "Do you——" he began, but he was not allowed to finish his question; Mrs. Matthews took it up.

"Do I know everything? Of course Stella told me, and the silly row about the pearls that gave the show away. She had a perfectly poisonous time after you left; I don't know how she got through it, and I'm sure she doesn't know either. When I turned up, old Crayfield was getting rather sick of her always being seedy; and I diddled him into letting her come with me. He took a fancy to me, and I let him—any port in a storm! We've lived in terror that he would come up on leave, but luckily he hasn't been able to get away. Stella was awfully ill for the first few weeks after we arrived——"

"She looks very well now," said Philip coldly, "and happy," he added.

His companion smote him sharply on the knee with her fan.

"My good man, you ought to be thankful, both for your own sake and for hers!"

"I am; and for that reason don't you think I'd better go without seeing her again?"

Mrs. Matthews hesitated; and Philip waited, hoping for some crumb of comfort, for the smallest encouragement to stay.

The answer came slowly. "I think you ought to go. You see—you see Stella has found out the power of her beauty and her charm, and it's a sort of consolation to her. She'll never get into mischief, not seriously, I mean, with anyone else, and as you and she can't come together again without the risk of a lot of bother and trouble, you'd much better let her alone. You can't blame her if she takes what she can get out of life under the circumstances——"

"I don't," he said shortly. "If she can put the past behind her I can but try to do the same."

"Wise man! Oh! look at this creature making for me; I shall have to go, the dance has begun."

A cowboy had climbed the daÏs in pursuit of Mrs. Matthews, and further hope of confidential conversation was blocked. Philip rose and held out his hand.

"Good-bye, then—and thank you for your advice. I will take it. I recognise that you are right."

As they parted he saw sympathy in her bright eyes, and was grudgingly, miserably grateful.