It was the day of Mrs. Crayfield's first garden party. What struck Stella as an extraordinary form of invitation had gone forth by hand: a notice, with "Mrs. Crayfield at Home," and the chosen date, inscribed in large copper-plate by a clerk in the Commissioner's office. Below was written, "Please write seen," and then came a column of names, the whole of the visitable community of Rassih. This document came back duly initialled by all but one or two inaccessible bachelors who were out in the district on duty. Stella expressed a nervous hope that everyone would come, and inquired what preparations she ought to make.

"Trust them to come!" scoffed Robert. "And don't worry yourself about preparations. The servants know what to do."

And, indeed, the servants' capabilities seemed miraculous. Tennis nets were fixed, the courts marked out correctly; tables became covered with cakes and sandwiches, tea and coffee, spirits and liqueurs, multitudes of soda-water bottles; there was fresh lemonade and claret-cup. All far more imposing than even the yearly flower-show at the vicarage at home that was patronised by the whole county! Stella felt there ought to be a band in attendance as well. She dressed herself in a soft white gown, and a lace hat that had cost Santa-Sahib a fabulous sum in London; then she stood for a few moments on the raised plinth overlooking the garden to watch Sher Singh giving orders and directions on the tennis ground below. Nothing had been forgotten; the row of cane chairs had little strips of carpet in front of them, and a group of small native boys clothed in white, with red caps and red belts, stood ready till they should be wanted to retrieve the balls. And all this was to happen every week!

Santa-Sahib came out and stood beside her, bulky, cheerful, in clean flannels, smoking a long cheroot.

"Turn round, little girl," he commanded; "let's have a look at you."

She turned and bobbed him a curtsey; he regarded her from head to foot with a proprietary air of satisfaction, yet he was silent, and Stella inquired anxiously if she "would do."

"Just as well, perhaps, that we're not in a big station," he exclaimed, half laughing, half serious, "or it would take me all my time to look after you!"

"But shall we be here always?" she asked.

"The longer the better," he answered shortly. "And no careering off to the hills, mind, unless of course——"

"Unless what? Do tell me!"

"Unless your health makes it necessary."

"My health? But I'm as strong as a horse. What do you mean?"

"What I say, my good child. Thank goodness you are a fine healthy young woman, and that old Antonio's strong point is maternity cases!"

The blood flew to her face, and down again to her toes; such a possibility, at which she now understood he was hinting, had never presented itself to her mind. She felt horrified, frightened, as though caught in a trap. Did Robert expect it of her? How cruel of him to talk like this just when she was so content and lighthearted, looking forward to her garden party, to everything in the future. A baby! She knew nothing about children, and if she did have a child it would, she felt sure, be exactly like Santa-Sahib—plain, and solid, and red. Why on earth couldn't one be married without all that sort of thing!

She heard Robert say: "Why, what's the matter?" and she looked up to find his small, hard eyes fixed on her with a quizzical expression that disturbed her still further.

"Nothing," she replied uneasily, turning from him to hide her distress. "Look, there's somebody arriving. Hadn't we better go down?"

"It's Beard, the missionary, and his wife, and I'm hanged if they haven't brought their family with them!"

An odd little party was scrambling from an antiquated pony carriage. Mr. Beard, in a long black coat, white trousers, and a pith hat shaped like a half of a football; Mrs. Beard, in a voluminous gown of some green material; and three little girls, who all wore sun-hats as well—hats so large that they appeared to rest on the children's shoulders.

Stella hastened down the steps in front of her husband, to greet the guests who were now arriving in force. To her relief, Mrs. Cuthell, so to speak, took command, and proceeded to make up the sets for tennis, explaining that she knew how everyone played, which, of course, Mrs. Crayfield could not; and soon the courts were filled with vigorous people, running and shouting; tennis balls flew, the little boys darted after them, non-players gathered in knots about the tables, or settled in the easy chairs, and it was all very pleasant and cheerful. Stella, feeling excited and important, set herself to do duty as hostess. She conversed with Mrs. Beard, and duly admired the three little girls who hung round their mother; two were twins; the third was only a year younger, which accounted for their all looking about the same age and size. Mrs. Beard said that the number of native Christians in the Rassih district was on the increase; she hoped Mrs. Crayfield would visit the school and distribute prizes.... Stella then listened to Mrs. Antonio's artless admiration of her daughter "Pussy," who played tennis well, and was certainly a handsome creature with rich colouring and brilliant dark eyes. Why Mrs. Piggott should have branded the Antonios as "practically natives" Stella could not quite understand, though they seemed different, it was true, from the rest of the official community, and they spoke with a curious accent. Dr. Antonio was a stumpy, good-humoured person, with a large stomach about which he had bandaged a crimson silk sash; he had long, straggling whiskers, obviously dyed, and a dark, puffy face. Mrs. Antonio was sallow and thin, and had regular features inherited by her daughter, whom she adored with the frankest extravagance. She was drawing Mrs. Crayfield's attention to Pussy's perfect complexion, when Mrs. Piggott joined the group, and remarked pointedly that Mrs. Foster's sister, who was playing tennis in the same set with Pussy, was to be envied her lovely white skin, fair hair, and blue eyes.

"But how pastee!" objected Mrs. Antonio. "She had a nice colour in her cheeks when she came out last year from home; now it is all gone, while my Pussy she is like a rose."

"Well, you see," said Mrs. Piggott, with the air of a kindly instructress, "Pussy is accustomed to the climate; you must remember that she has never been to England!"

Stella glanced nervously at Mrs. Antonio, but Pussy's mother merely nodded complacently and turned to her hostess. "My Pussy, she is so healthy and strong. It is luckee, for this is a very hot place, Mrs. Crayfield."

"So I understand," returned Stella politely; and then Mrs. Antonio began to talk about punkah coolies and their perversities during the hot season, and alluded to something called "tatties." Mrs. Piggott bemoaned the difficulty of procuring ice when it was most needed. Mrs. Beard said, with self-righteous resentment, that Mission people had to endure the heat without such alleviations; and Mrs. Antonio confessed that ice gave her "pain at stomach," but that Pussy liked to suck lumps, which was bad for her prettee teeth.

During this dull conversation among their elders the Beard children took courage and wandered afield; they made for a big mango tree, behind which they appeared to find some attraction.

As each set of tennis came to an end the players gathered about the refreshment tables; trays were handed round by the white-clad servants under the authoritative supervision of Sher Singh, and suddenly Mrs. Antonio transferred her attention from Pussy to Colonel Crayfield's bearer.

"That man! How does he behave to you, Mrs. Crayfield, dear?" she inquired with genuine, if inquisitive, solicitude.

Stella resented the question, conscious as she was of her subordination to the rule of Sher Singh. She felt sensitively suspicious that the little gang of ladies were one and all aware of her humiliating position.

"He seems to be a very good servant," she replied evasively, "and he is devoted to my husband."

Mrs. Cuthell joined in. "Oh, yes, and Colonel Crayfield to him; everyone knows that! But all the same, bachelors' old servants are invariably antagonistic to a mistress. It's a mistake to keep them. When you have learnt something about Indian housekeeping you will find out how he has been feathering his nest all these years!"

It was Mrs. Piggott's turn next. "How well I remember the bother I had with my husband's old khansamah when first we were married. He used to commit endless atrocities, and then declare he had only obeyed my orders. Edward always believed him! However, I soon put my foot down and got rid of him. There was such a row!"

"I go to the bazaar myself," said Mrs. Beard somewhat irrelevantly, "and do my own marketing."

"Ah! but of course your servants are Christians," argued Mrs. Piggott, covert contempt in her tone, "and we all know what that means!"

Mrs. Beard reddened. "Which shows how lamentably ignorant you all are," she retorted. "You think that because a native is a Christian that he must be a rogue. I admit that he generally is a rogue to start with, but not because he is a Christian. It is because, unfortunately, our converts are mostly drawn from a class that has nothing to lose by embracing the true religion, people who are outcasts by birth, cut off from all spiritual advantages, oppressed and despised, jungle folk, gypsies, many of them thieves by profession, and such like. So far we have hardly tapped the better born classes, and whenever we do it is a real triumph, for they have everything to lose from a worldly point of view. But we know we must begin from the bottom and work upwards, and already great progress has been made, though it is necessarily slow, and the fight is often disheartening...."

Stella looked at the faded, dowdy little woman with a new interest. Mrs. Beard and her husband were working for India, doing great work, just as great in its way as the Carringtons had done in the past, and as their kind were doing in the present. She wished she could help the Beards by engaging a whole staff of Christian converts as servants! But so far she was powerless, there was nothing she could do; and as the atmosphere had become slightly uncomfortable she was about to try and change the subject when, to her relief, a diversion was caused by Mrs. Beard's discovery that her offspring were disporting themselves behind the mango tree with some native children, though, surely, according to Mission theories, Mrs. Beard should have felt no displeasure?

"Martha, Mary, Deborah!" she called sternly, "come here at once!"

This summons was not obeyed, but apparently it caused an animated argument between the padre's children and their Oriental playmates. Again Mrs. Beard raised a voice of command, and presently Martha and Mary and Deborah emerged from the shelter of the tree, escorting a small brown boy attired in a red cotton garment and an embroidered skull cap.

"Mother," shouted the three little girls in chorus, "this dear boy wants to come to our school. We will make him a Christian, mayn't we?"

To their mortified astonishment this praiseworthy plan did not meet with the encouragement it deserved. The Commissioner's head servant pounced on the red-coated pagan and took him, howling loudly, from his friends.

Stella rose. "Sher Singh!" she called angrily, "let the child alone!" Of course, the man heard her order, must have known, though perforce she had spoken in English, what she wished him to do; but he paid no attention, just bore the child, kicking and screaming, towards the servants' quarters.

Martha and Mary and Deborah ran to their mother and buried their faces in her skirt. Stella looked round for Robert; he was drinking a whisky and soda, regardless of the scene. Mrs. Cuthell laid a restraining hand on her arm. "It's quite right, Mrs. Crayfield," she said with reassuring inflection. "The servants' children must be kept in the background, otherwise they would swarm all over the place."

But Stella felt she had been publicly flouted by Sher Singh, and though for the moment she was helpless, she resolved to tell Robert, when the party should be over, that for the future she expected Sher Singh to obey her. Meantime, while Mrs. Cuthell made up fresh sets of tennis, she apologised prettily to Mrs. Beard.

But when the guests had all departed, with many gratifying assurances of their enjoyment, her courage dwindled. Since the night of her arrival at Rassih she had dreaded Robert's anger; the unpleasant memory remained with her so vividly—the uproar, the helpless alarm of the servants, her own fear and dismay. Never before in the whole course of her sheltered existence had she seen anyone so angry. And now, were she to protest against Sher Singh's behaviour, what if he should rage at her in the same manner? As he passed into his dressing-room she recognised, with a sinking at her heart, that she was afraid of her husband, abjectly afraid, ten thousand times more afraid of him then she had ever been of grandmamma. She dared not risk a scene, dared not stand up for herself. She would let the matter rest for the present, wait till Sher Singh disobeyed her again. After all, perhaps the man had not heard, or had not understood her this afternoon.

However, towards the end of dinner she happened to look up and catch Sher Singh regarding her with an expression of such venomous hatred that she barely checked an exclamation. Meeting her astonished gaze, he turned away abruptly to the sideboard, and she drew in her breath, shivering. When, a little later, he was pouring port into Robert's glass, she observed that his hand shook, that his eyes were heavy and bloodshot; there was something strange in his appearance.

She tried to dismiss the incident from her mind, turned her thoughts to some advice Mrs. Beard had given her as to studying Hindustani. At least she might dare to attack Robert on that point. It was like being a deaf person not to understand the words spoken around one. And once she had obtained some command of the language she would be in a position to give her own orders to the other servants without Sher Singh's intervention.

She waited until they were in the drawing-room, and Robert had flung himself into an easy chair to examine some official document. He worked very hard, and seemed to think of little else.

"Robert," she began softly. He did not hear her. She repeated his name and he looked up abstractedly. Then he lowered the sheets of foolscap and removed his pince-nez.

"What is it now?" he inquired with indulgent resignation.

"Can I have lessons in Hindustani?"

"Why? What good would that do you?"

"I want to learn, and I have nothing particular to do while you are at work all day."

"You've got the piano, and you can order what books you want from Bombay. Haven't you any fancy work?"

She laughed. "Fancy work! I want to use my brains."

"Don't talk nonsense. What good will Hindustani do your brains? Keep up your French and music. Natives respect Englishwomen far more if they can't speak the language."

"Oh, Robert, what a thing to say! I'm sure that can't be true."

"You know nothing about it, you silly child. Come here!"

She had risen and was moving restlessly about the room. As she passed he put out his arm and pulled her down on to his knees. With a strong effort she controlled her reluctance, realising, suddenly aghast, that her distaste for Robert's demonstrations of affection was on the increase, that it threatened to develop into actual aversion. As he pressed her face against his shoulder, kissing her hair, a sort of desperation seized her. She did not love Robert, had never loved him, and at this moment she almost hated him. The question rose in her mind: Was it because they had known she was not in love with Robert that grandmamma and the aunts had shown so little sympathy with her marriage, had behaved as if she were doing something reprehensible? If so, why had they not warned her? Yet, supposing they had gone so far as to put probable consequences before her, would she have heeded, believed them? No, she knew well enough that in her headstrong simplicity nothing would then have turned her from her purpose. If anyone was to blame in the matter it was Robert, who had married her to please himself only, regardless of her ignorance of life and love, even partly, perhaps, because of it. She recalled a sentence in the letter Maud Verrall had written announcing her engagement: "I am very happy and awfully in love." If only she was in love with Robert! But she was not, she never could be. Did he know it? Not that she believed he would care one way or the other as long as she submitted to his will in every detail. But at least she did not intend to submit with regard to learning Hindustani. More than ever did she feel that congenial occupation of mind was a necessity, that if she could not satisfy her craving for knowledge of the country she would rather have stayed on at The Chestnuts. How could she hope to understand India, as far as it was possible for an Englishwoman to do so, till she was able to talk to the people? She had already discovered that India for its own sake did not interest Robert. He worked hard because he liked work. He had a clear, hard brain; the mode of existence suited him; he appreciated his big pay and the importance of his position; natives were afraid of him, and he liked to inspire fear. He never talked to her of his work, or of the people and their histories and religions, and now he did not want her to learn the language, beyond the smattering that would suffice for her daily requirements.

However, learn it she would. And a means, though repugnant, of gaining her ends occurred to her. Bracing her will, she slipped her arm about his neck and laid her lips to his cheek. "You are Satan Sahib now," she murmured plaintively. "I don't like you at all."

His grasp of her tightened. "Why, what have I done?"

"The first little thing I have ever asked for you refuse me!"

"What was it?"

Good heavens! Were her wishes so trivial to him that they could pass from his mind on the spot?

She answered his question without betrayal of her resentment. "That I should learn Hindustani properly."

"What a little pest! Well, if I say 'yes,' how much will you love Santa-Sahib?"

"Ever and ever so much," she cooed, knowing that half measures would be useless, that she must pay, and pay fully, for what she wanted.

"All right, then we must see about a respectable old munshi, who won't let you work too hard or teach you bad words. After all, if you must use what you call your brains, it may be better for you than French novels. But remember, if you're going to pose as a clever woman I'll divorce you at once!"

"I don't think you'll get rid of me quite so easily," she laughed. The victory elated her. In future she would have no scruple as to this method of conquest when the object she desired was worth it. So she sipped her first taste of the power of sex hypocrisy, scented the supreme value of feminine arts and wiles.