The sun poured upon the flat roof of the baking little rest-house, though the hour was yet early. Philip Flint lay limp and exhausted on a long chair in the veranda; the sharp "go" of fever had worn itself out for the time being, worn out its victim also. Through the night he had tossed and talked nonsense, shivered and burned by turns, with aching limbs and bursting head. Now the reaction seemed equally bad, if not worse, since, while the malady raged, he had at least been but vaguely aware of bodily distress; and, though harassed with hideous dreams, there had come interludes when he felt as if wafted to regions of bliss, his companion a being half goddess half mortal. One moment she floated beyond his reach in limitless space, remote as a star.... He had heard his own voice calling, entreating with a delirious confusion of words on his lips: "Stella—a star—Star of India——" Again she was close to him, held to his heart.

Blurred memories of these transports lingered in his mind as he lay gasping with the heat, and then came devastating doubts and warnings, sweeping the glamour away. He dared not shut his eyes to the danger, in truth he stood on the brink of a moral precipice; unless he could manoeuvre a transfer from Rassih, unless in the meantime he could keep clear of the Commissioner's house, he was bound to find himself desperately in love with the Commissioner's wife; and, without vanity, he foresaw that the situation must become equally perilous for her. What a fool he had been!—ensnared by the girl's beauty, by the tempting circumstance of her alliance with a man so much her senior for whom it was obvious she had no real affection, a man who was blind to the budding of her intellect, who merely valued her bright innocence as a whet to his senses. Yet apart from these odious reflections, apart from selfish perspective, Philip felt it was up to him now to call halt for her sake. So far they had exchanged no words that might not have been shouted from the housetops, but what price words when came mute understanding, when just a little more and they would find themselves in the grip of that eternal, immutable force called Love! And then? How should he bring himself to leave her desolate, unhappy, to face a future without hope because his own target in life was Success, fulfilment of ambition?

From the outset of his career one aim had possessed Philip Flint—to arrive, to reach the topmost rung of his particular ladder; and already his future was brilliant with promise, his progress sure, unless, through his own folly, he loosed his hold and fell back. Well he knew the power of Mother Grundy in Indian official circles, the need for avoidance of serious scandal in a country where moral standards and example must count for promotion among a community that, officially speaking, was composed of one class. In England it was possible for a man to hold high public office while his domestic belongings socially could not be recognised; in India such a state of affairs would be wholly unworkable. Imagine a Chief Commissioner, a Lieutenant Governor, any representative of the Crown, not to mention a Viceroy, with a wife who could not be "received"! No; open scandal in India spelt failure. Therefore it was a choice for Philip Flint between heart and head; and now he asked himself grimly which was to prove the stronger?

The beat of a horse's hoofs outside scattered his thoughts. He raised himself on his elbow to see Colonel Crayfield dismounting, and a couple of peons ran forth with salaams to receive the important visitor.

Colonel Crayfield stumped up the veranda steps. "Hallo, Flint, sorry to hear you are sick," he threw his hat and whip on to a camp table, dragged a chair into convenient position and seated himself weightily. "Had a sharp bout of malaria? You look pretty well washed out!"

"Sharp and short, sir, I hope. I think I'm about over it now all right."

"Poof! the heat of this place!" the Commissioner looked about him with disgust. "Not fit for a dog. Talking of dogs, your terrier strayed up to our house last night; it worried the memsahib, because she took it into her head it must mean you were at the last gasp. I promised to come and find out if you were still alive!"

"Very kind," murmured Philip; "as usual I must apologise for Jacob, and I'm afraid he hasn't come back yet!"

"Oh, that's all right, never mind the dog. The question is, how you can ward off another attack; Rassih has a bad reputation for intermittent fever once it gets hold, and stopping in this infernal little bungalow won't help you. What do you say to coming to us for a bit? Plenty of room and no lack of ice and good milk; we'll soon have you fit. I'll send the tonga to bring you up, and your man can follow with your things."

In Philip's present enfeebled condition of body and spirit the temptation was severe; setting aside the pleasant prospect of creature comforts, food properly prepared (his own cook was woefully careless) there would be—Stella! He strove to hold on to the arguments that at the moment of Colonel Crayfield's arrival were in process of bracing his will and his judgment; now they were slipping away—if only time could be gained in which he might call them to heel, summon strength to refuse with firmness....

He stirred uneasily: "It's exceedingly kind of you, sir, but I couldn't think of giving you and Mrs. Crayfield the trouble. I'm not really ill; to-morrow I shall be as fit as ever again. It's nothing but an ordinary go of malaria."

He felt he was gabbling what his chief would regard as merely conventional protests; even to himself they sounded futile, unreal.

"Rubbish!" the ejaculation was no more than he might have anticipated. "Don't be an ass. Give me a bit of paper and a pencil and I'll send word to my wife. The tonga can be here in two shakes, and I'll wait and go back with you myself."

He began to shout orders. The groom was to return with his horse and the note. Philip's personal servant was bidden to produce paper and a pencil, moreover to pack a portmanteau with his master's requirements. In a few moments the whole matter had passed from Philip's control, and he resigned himself to Fate. But what irony that Stella's husband, of all people, should be the means of forcing him into a position that, unless Fate proved unnaturally considerate, might lead right and left to disaster!