'I never was so tired of any place in my life,' remarked Mrs. Boynton. 'It was not so bad at first; but nothing would ever induce me to attempt the wilderness again.'

She was back in the big hall at Rajpore once more, the centre of a circle assembled to bid her welcome; for Gwen was not the sort of person to come or go unnoticed. She looked charming in a new dress which she had ordered on the morning after the fire to be ready against her return. The band was playing, the dim lights were twinkling above the polished floor, people were coming and going through the swing-doors, and Dan, devoted as ever, was waiting for his promised first waltz. A sheer bit of vanity was this promise on Gwen's part; she liked to re-enter her familiar world looking perfection, and Dan was the best dancer in the room. Yet she lingered with her hand on his arm to glance at Lewis Gordon, who, still wearing a sling, stood on the outside of the circle trying not to look bored.

'And I don't think civilised people ought to go to those wild places and live in uncivilised ways,' she continued, clinching the argument against Hodinuggur. 'It is demoralising living on the roof without doors and windows. Look at my cousin. I don't believe he will ever settle down to work again.'

'"No locks had they," etc.' quoted Lewis. 'I shouldn't have thought you were likely to disapprove of Arcadia anyhow, or Hodinuggur either. I assure you, Graham, Mrs. Boynton played the "Light of the Harem" to perfection.'

She met the general chorus of belief with a little shudder, not all put on.

'I hope not. If I thought that, I would have elected to stay in my room till I could appear like a Christian. But it only bears out my contention. Civilised people should eschew barbaric environments. They are not safe.'

'A bad look-out for me,' laughed George, who had been given three days, leave in order to escort the party to headquarters. Gwen turned to him in kindly familiarity.

'You! Oh, I'll except you as beyond temptation, if you like. Shall you be here on my return? the next is ours, remember.'

She knew quite well that the boy had remembered little else since she had given the promise half an hour before; but she knew also how sweet the reminder would be with all those older aspirants standing by. And she was always anxious to please when she could. Lewis Gordon, however, lifted his eyebrows and walked over rather aggressively to Rose Tweedie.

'Why aren't you dancing?' he asked. I am unfortunately a cripple; but Keene, I am sure, would be horrified if he saw you sitting down. May I tell him?'

'No, thanks. I don't feel up to dancing to-night. I fancy I have been overdoing myself a little over tennis and riding at Hodinuggur.'

There was no challenge in her manner, but Lewis chose to suppose one.

'Your wisdom, Miss Tweedie, is of that truly feminine type which begins when the cake is finished. But it is refreshing to find you have these womanly weaknesses; without them you would be unassailable.'

'If the carriage is here,' remarked Rose quietly, 'I think I shall go home. If you see my father, Mr. Gordon, tell him I have done so.'

His manner changed in an instant.

'I will tell him now, and join you, if I may, for a lift back to the Club. I am out of it also: my brute of a bearer has bandaged me all wrong, and I must get it altered.'

Rose, with an ambulance certificate, would have liked to offer help, but had to be silent. Even on such a charitable errand Mrs. Grundy would have been horrified at a visit to a bachelor's quarters. And while she acknowledged the limitation, Rose felt irritated by it as she stood waiting by the door for Lewis Gordon's return, and watching Mrs. Boynton skim by like a swallow under Dan's guidance. Why should the married women have all the chances?

'She waltzes beautifully, doesn't she?' asked Lewis, finding her so engaged.

'She does everything beautifully,' replied Rose coldly.

It was not a good beginning for their drive together; but it was always so, and as she watched the carriage taking her companion on to his quarters after it had set her down, she told herself disconsolately that they seemed to have a bad effect on each other, and to show to the very worst advantage in each other's company. She, at any rate, was never so painfully uncompromising in her condemnation of other people's foibles; perhaps because she did not care whether they existed or not. But she did care dreadfully when Lewis was in question; that was the worst of it.

Mrs. Boynton was not long either in leaving the hall; in fact, George Keene's promised waltz was but half through when she exclaimed at the lateness of the hour, and after salving over his disappointment with an invitation to tea on the morrow, bade her coachman drive home. An order, however, which she changed at the gates of the garden, so that the carriage instead of turning westward towards the civil station, chose the eastward road towards the native town. Towards the post-office also, which lay close to the Dukhani Gate of the city. For a letter, addressed to a certain Mrs. Arbuthnot, should be waiting 'to be called for'; and at that hour, a few minutes before closing-time, all but subordinates would have left the office. So a veiled lady asking for a letter would run no risk of being recognised. Yet as Gwen Boynton drove home again along the dark Mall, with the expected letter still unread in her pocket, she told herself there was really no need for such precautions; only it was as well to prevent those gossiping native jewellers from advertising the fact that mem Boynton sahiba was so hard put to it that she had to sell her trinkets. That was all; yet each passing carriage, as it flashed its lamp rays on her face, seemed desirous of proclaiming the fact that she had been citywards to the eyes of its unseen occupants. She felt a feverish desire to know who those occupants might be, and a distinct dislike to and distrust of the whole business rose up in her, making her glad to find time had run so short that she must dress at once for the dinner-party given to welcome her back to Rajpore. With a feeling of relief from immediate certainty, she threw the letter, still unopened, on the sitting-room table as she passed it. But half an hour after, when she returned in her trailing white garments, the sight of it changed her mood. It would be better to know. After all, the jewels might be paste and worth nothing. It would almost be a relief if it were so.

She sat down by the table and turned the envelope over and over in her delicate hands. It might mean so much; it might mean so little. And what in either case did she intend to do? She had literally no idea, as with reluctant fingers she tore slowly at the envelope.

It seemed to her as if ages had passed before she realised that she was staring down at those few words telling her, briefly, that the jewels sent were worth six thousand rupees, and asking her if she would have the money in notes or by bill of exchange.

How simple it was! No question of taking or leaving. Only whether it should be in notes or by bill of exchange. And six thousand would not only pay Dan--if indeed she decided on that--it would leave something over for the coming season at Simla. A welcome something indeed! when all one's wardrobe had been burnt; and people were so particular how she was dressed. Then, if one came to think of it, did she not deserve some compensation for that loss of her dresses? Trivial thought! going further towards decision than any of the others. In the midst of her meditations a white-robed servant appeared at the door saying indifferently--

'Gordon sahib salaam deta.'

Another triviality; yet she rose quickly, thrusting the letter into her pocket. So he had come already! She had known well enough that he would miss her, that he would come to seek her, but this was soon indeed. She gave the permission to show him in calmly, and yet the woman's triumph at her own power came uppermost, as, awaiting his entry, she turned to finish the fastening of a bunch of white gardenias. Her back was towards him, but he could see, and she knew that he could see her framed by the long mirror, like a picture. Her hair a golden setting to the diamond stars, her white arms whiter than her white dress, whiter than the furred cloak hanging loosely from her white shoulders, or the huge ostrich-feather fan dangling from her slender waist. Lewis thought instantly of Fedora in the ballroom scene; then, that on the stage or off it he had never seen a more utterly desirable woman to present as your wife for the world's approval. That is a feeling which decides many marriages.

'It seems a shame to trouble you,' he began, 'but the bearer is such a fool. The sling is always too high or too low, and I want to go to the club. I thought you wouldn't mind seeing to it, and I saw by the light in this room that you were still here.

Every word of this speech, though the speaker was unconscious of it, showed Gwen that her cousin had been thinking the very thoughts she wished him to think. Translated by her feminine finesse it stood thus--

'You are too lovely to be bothered, but then, you do everything so well. It is too deadly dull without you, so, knowing I could rely on your sympathy, I kept a look-out for some sign of your presence.' Now, when a woman hears everything she desires in the words of a man, her reply is generally a return in kind. In this case, words were of less importance than those pretty, soft, white hands so solicitous over his comfort.

'Is that better?' she asked. Her concern was absolutely honest, for she was a woman every inch of her, loving to cosset and care for her men-folk. Those hands were so close to his cheek that their softness seemed to thrill through him. After all, was it not a wife's part to flatter and cajole? to make life soft and sweet? Who could do that better than she?

'Dear little hands,' he said, laying his suddenly on one and pressing it tight to his breast. Then a quick passion blazed in his eyes. 'Gwen,' he cried, 'oh, Gwen! how sweet you are!' The ring in his own voice satisfied him. Yes! this was happiness, and he stooped to kiss the face so close to his own. And then? She was beautiful as ever; he was cool as ever. The glamour had gone, the world was as it had been before his fate was settled. For he had settled it definitely, though he scarcely knew if he were glad or sorry for the fact.

'Am I to beg your pardon, dear?' he said gently, looking into her gracious eyes; 'or will you believe that you have so spoilt me that I cannot get on without the spoiler? Will you forgive me, and try and put up with me, Gwen?'

'Of course I will forgive you, Lewis,' she began plaintively; and then the lack of emotion in her own voice, her own heart, struck her disagreeably. Yet what else could she expect when her first thought had been one of gratitude for that offer of six thousand rupees in her pocket? For all that, she felt aggrieved, thinking illogically how different it was with Dan. Unwonted tears rose to her eyes and made her face tender as she went on.

'And why should I not spoil you, Lewis? You know I am always glad to help--anybody. And, after all, we are cousins. After all, there is always that between us.'

She did not know why she offered him this excuse, this loophole of escape. Not from calculation or finesse, certainly, yet it touched him as nothing else would have done; for he, too, had felt the flatness of it all; he, too, had thought vaguely that the sacrifice of his freedom deserved more solid satisfaction in return.

'Yes, dear,' he replied, half playfully, 'there is that. But there is something more, is there not, Gwen? At least I hope so--for you have spoilt me--I cannot do without you.'

It was her hand, however, that he kissed this time. And then the carriage being announced, he escorted her to it most decorously, taking care, with all the attentive calm of a husband, that her dress should not suffer from the wheel. The fact struck him ruefully as he went off to the club, feeling that his fate was definitely settled; though, of course, the matter need not be made public at once. Gwen would be sure to prefer that her season at Simla should be untrammelled by open engagements, and he was in no hurry. Leave was inconvenient till the cold weather, so during the rains when people wanted amusement they could afford them the excitement of the news.

Gwen's feelings as she drove to her dinner-party were of the same nature. It was settled, definitely settled of course, but no one need know of it; no one must guess at it until she had given Dan his congÉ. It was the first time she had ever really put that thought into words, and the very suggestion made her heart sink. There would be no lack of emotion about that interview at any rate. Even the preliminary of paying back the debt seemed beset with difficulties. He was so quick to understand, so hard to turn aside once he had the least clew to her feelings. Finally, after much cogitation she decided on waiting until she had actually received the money from Delhi. It would be more difficult for him to refuse the notes down on the table; besides, George Keene's leave would be over, he would have returned to Hodinuggur, and the possibility of confidences given under the influence of strong excitement would be over. For Gwen had not failed to notice the strong friendship growing between the two; in a way, she was vexed at what seemed to her a childish, almost absurd, deference to the lad's opinion on Dan's part. Dan, who was his superior in every possible way; that is to say if he chose to be reasonable. Last of all, the delay meant a closer proximity to that annual flight to the Hills which would provide her with a safe retreat. So she set the idea aside for a time and became cheerful over the respite.

George, having tea with her next day, thought her if possible gayer, brighter, more charming than ever; especially when his talk turned on his hero, Dan Fitzgerald. Now, no one had ever heard Mrs. Boynton say an unkind word of her neighbours; indeed, the peculiar cachet this gave to her personality made her remembered in after years by all admirers, not so much as a beautiful, as a perfectly gracious woman. To George, accustomed chiefly to the high-spirited freedom of sisters, this virtue seemed divine, the more so, because the world generally disapproved of Dan--of his recklessness and want of reverence. Gwen Boynton, on the contrary, found nothing to regret, save that Mr. Fitzgerald was not the finest man out of the service, instead of in it; since, as Mr. Gordon said, he was too good to slave among men years his junior. Whereupon George, his young face full of importance, informed her as a dead secret, that the reason Dan stuck to his colours was that a girl had promised to marry him whenever he got his promotion. That would be in the next spring at the latest, since, as he, George Keene, was in charge of the sluice no prejudicial contretemps could possibly occur. And Gwen with an actual smile at the mystification--which so many women dearly love--reminded him that even when folk did their best, slips came between cups and lips.

The lad laughed joyously.

'Oh! I don't venture to stand sponsor for the young woman, of course; I only meant that Dan would get his promotion if it depends on that gate being kept shut. I carry the key about with me like Hare did in the "Pair of Spectacles." It's "peculiarly inconvenient," of course, but as they say on the Surrey side, "the villain who would reach it must pass over my dead body."'

Gwen, who had a fine taste, admired the determination underlying the jest. Mr. Fitzgerald, she said, was lucky in such a friend. Nevertheless it might be a doubtful kindness, since the loss of promotion might induce him to seek fairer fortune elsewhere.

She insisted on this argument even with herself, yet her heart beat uncomfortably fast, when, delay having been extended to the limit of possibility she sat awaiting Dan's arrival in the pretty room which was so like herself in its softness and its solid attention to comfort beneath all the delicate tasteful ornamentations The three thousand rupees in notes were ready for use in her pocket, and a long letter from Hodinuggur in George's fine bold handwriting lay on the writing-table beside the bouquet of flowers which Lewis had sent her from his garden that morning. From the next room came the sound of the ayah dusting out boxes against the immediate packing up. All Gwen's excuses for delay had vanished; yet she found it hard as ever to face one man's confidence--the confidence which showed in his glad greeting. It forced her into beginning remotely, half affectionately, by regrets over his want of tact at the Delhi conference. It had not been an unqualified success so far as Dan's departmental popularity went. How could it, when he had deliberately but savagely attacked the wisdom of his elders? True, the under-secretary had sniggered in describing the scene, and even Mr. Gordon had laughed amid his vexation, saying that none knew better than he, what a confounded ass Colonel Tweedie could be when confronted in public with new ideas, at the same time it had been needless, almost brutal on Fitzgerald's part, seeing he had right on his side; that alone should have made him temperate. Of course, once his method had been suggested, no other was open to any one out of a lunatic asylum; all the more reason for mercy in bringing the fact home. So Gwen in her soft voice attempted to convey her blame to the sinner, who, with his hands in his coat-pockets stood before her trying to look penitent and only succeeding in looking provokingly debonnair.

'But sure it's the blatant stupidity of the world that is its greatest crime,' he protested. 'Don't I remember my mother saying to us, "Oh, children! I don't mind your being naughty--I can whack you for that; but I will not have ye stupid."'

Gwen laughed. Who could help it, over that picture of home training so utterly unfit for one recipient, at least? Indeed, she was conscious of a wish that her companion were more dull; less full of eager vitality. It made that inevitable task so hard!

'Dan,' she began desperately in sudden resolve, 'I want to talk about business. The fact is, I've had a windfall of money lately. And so--I--I intend to pay you back that loan of yours. It isn't fair----'

He was on his knees beside her, to get a closer look at her face ere she had finished. 'What is it, Gwen?' he asked rapidly. 'You owe me nothing. What do you mean? There is no question of money between us,' he went on in answer to her silence. 'There never was but once. There never shall be again. Is it anything else, Gwen?--anything in which I can help; or are you only feeling afraid of the future? Tell me outright, dear.'

Where was the good, she thought petulantly, of delays and preparations when he met her first hint in this direct fashion; yet against the grain, for she hated scenes, she took her courage in her hand and spoke up--

'Yes, I am afraid; afraid of the future for you as well as for myself--O Dan! I really wish you would sit down like a Christian and listen properly. Kissing my hand is no answer. And I am serious. This idle foolish promise of thinking about it all seriously next year when you get your promotion is not fair on you--don't laugh, Dan, it isn't. It ties you down, and prevents you doing yourself justice. And then it isn't fair on me.'

He interrupted her quickly. 'How is it not fair on you, Gwen? I don't see it. You do not like any one else as much as you like me; you know you don't. And if this half promise to me holds you back from marrying some one you do not like as you like me, why, then,' his voice lowered to tender gravity, 'I thank God for it as I should thank Him for any good He sent into your life.'

'You do not understand,' she retorted querulously. 'Surely I am the best judge of myself, and there is no reason why I should want to marry some one else because I don't think it would be right to marry you. I should make a bad wife, Dan, to any poor man; and I should not be happy. Surely, surely, I ought to know best! It isn't as if I were the inexperienced girl I was before. I have been married for years, and I think, yes I am sure, that I am happier as I am.' Her last words degenerated into something between a laugh and a sob. It really was too ridiculous, too grievous, that she, Gwen Boynton, with all her knowledge of the world, should not be considered fit to judge for herself.

'Married!' he echoed thoughtfully, and something in his voice arrested her. 'No, Gwen, my dear, you have never been married. You don't even understand what it means to be married; for your knowledge of it is all evil. That's the worst of it. Don't be angry, dear, I'm not going to lecture like Mrs. Grundy on the sin of a loveless marriage, or the degradation of one, like the sentimentalists. Surely, surely a man or a woman may marry from pity, from honour, from self-devotion, and yet touch the perfection of the tie. But you,'--he paused a while, 'you did not only lose the love of it, Gwen; the thing itself was never yours. The facing of life, hand in hand; two of you where there was but one before. See! there is my hand, Gwen, and there is yours. A difference, isn't there? But how close they fit, each to each! How close and warm,'--he paused again to smile at her. 'What is it the song says, Gwen, about giving your hand where your heart can never be? Fudge! It should be, "How can I give my heart where my hand can never be?" Yes! there they are, close, and I am there too, my darling. Ready, always ready. Never again, Gwen, without the touch of a hand, like--how does it run?--like children frightened in the night, like children crying for the light. Never again, Gwen, never again.'

They were sitting together side by side on the sofa, her hand held in his so lightly that she could have withdrawn it without an effort. But it lay there in his clasp as she sat listening to the soft voice. Listening on, even when it ceased, as if its spell lingered. They were not even looking at each other. Beyond the silent room, through the open door, the sunshine showed Gwen's bearer cleaning the lamps with a dirty duster. Not a romantic sight; but it is to be doubted if either saw it, for their eyes were blinded by the great darkness in which they found themselves, trustfully, hand in hand.

At last, with a little shiver, she tried to move, but his fingers closed on hers more firmly.

'Too late, Gwen! Too late. You should have taken it away when you had the chance,' he said joyously. 'Oh, Gwen, my darling, if we were married you would forget to be afraid, as you did just now; didn't you, Gwen?'

'I believe you mesmerise me,' she replied, trying to jest, 'and forgetting bills doesn't help to pay them; does it, Dan?'

'So you are back at the money again. Well, I don't care. Money or no money; promotion or no promotion----'

'No! no!' she interrupted, yielding, as she always did, to his decision, 'that really is not fair--the bargain was promotion--it was indeed.'

'Promotion be it,' he assented with a contented laugh, 'though I can't for the life of me see what it has got to do with the matter.'

'You would at least have more pay,' she put in, wondering faintly the while how it came about that they should be discussing such questions when she had meant to be so firm. 'I could not marry a pauper; could I?'

'Indeed, and indeed, it might be the best thing for you; then nobody would give you credit, dear, but me. And I--Oh, Gwen, my dear, my dear,--you might be bereft of everything--of all, save your own self, and sure I would give you credit for the all, still. Credit!' he echoed to his own words, 'isn't it absurd to be talking of it, as if either of us could be debtor or creditor to the other.'

That was all she gained from the interview. That, and the unwelcome remembrance of full five minutes when the touch of her lover's hand and the sound of his voice had made her forget the world, the flesh, and the devil.

But not for long. As she sat after Dan had gone, trying to comfort herself by the fact that one never knew what might happen, that they might all be dead and buried before the necessity for action arose--which, by the way, was her favourite consolation--she looked up to see the servant standing at the door, doubtfully expectant.

'What is it?' she asked languidly.

'The vakeel of the DiwÂns of Hodinuggur, Huzoor. He hath brought an offering, and desires an audience.'

'The DiwÂns of Hodinuggur!' repeated Gwen, startled.

'The agent, Huzoor. Shall I tell him the mem sahiba is going to eat the air in her carriage? It is but to say something about a pot, he bade me mention. A pot that the Huzoor fancied.'

Gwen stood up, holding to the table.

'Now!' she said after a pause, 'show him in now.'

Mrs. Boynton's neat victoria waited for its mistress long after the smiling and obsequious visitor had given his shoe-money to the servant and departed. Waited patiently till, as it grew dark, the ayah came out and removed the cushions and parasols. Mem sahiba was not well, and would not go to the gardens; she would not go out to dinner either, so the horses could be put up. Then, the bearer coming into the verandah with the lighted lamps, a shrill altercation began over the shoe-money; the ayah asserting that when the visit was to a lady, her female attendant had a right to half, and even the grooms putting in a claim on the ground that they had been present. Their mistress, lying on the sofa where but a short time before she had sat hand in hand with Dan Fitzgerald, heard the dispute and had not the courage to rebuke their greed.

And yet the vakeel of the DiwÂns had simply brought a message, that if the mem sahiba would like another AyÔdhya pot, similar in all respects to the last, one could doubtless be found and forwarded without delay. She had refused the offer promptly, decisively; but the fact of its having been made filled her with regrets and alarms. If--oh! how lonely she felt, without a soul to stand between her and trouble. Then Dan's words recurred to her! bankrupt of everything yet credited with all! They brought no comfort, however; only a vague irritation against the speaker. But for him she would not have been tempted; but for him she would never have kept the discovery of the jewels secret--if indeed it was a discovery. Could it be a bribe? For what? Had they found out her entanglement with Dan Fitzgerald? Her vexation blazed up at the bare suspicion, and though every fresh proof of the attraction he had for her unstable nature invariably resulted in a recoil of the pendulum, she was conscious this time that it had never before swung back so far. He was to blame; yes! he was undoubtedly to blame for the whole miserable business.

She felt herself too much upset for Lewis Gordon's sharp eyes to be a safe ordeal, so, as he was to be one of the dinner-party, she sent an excuse, and spent the long evening in nursing her wrath; a very necessary process if Gwen Boynton was to bear malice, since her temper was of the sweetest. Even with this encouragement the next morning found her ready with excuses for everybody, herself included. After all, matters were not so serious. Three days would see her safe in Simla, where six thousand rupees would be better than three, infinitely better than none; and it would be quite easy to keep her understanding with Lewis dark for some time to come. Then what proof could any one have that she had kept, or even found the jewels? Who was to say that the pot had not been stolen, jewels and all? As for the jewellers who had bought them, they neither knew her real name nor address. The only possible danger lay in weakly yielding to conscience in the way of attempted restitution. Besides, if the pearls were really meant as a bribe, surely those who offered it deserved to lose them and gain nothing; for, of course, the idea of gaining anything from her was preposterous.

She went to the hall that evening, cheerful as ever, and exclaimed airily at the changes one short twenty-four hours had wrought in the shifting society of mid-April. The Grahams had left, the Taylors were to start that evening if there was room in the train laden with women and babies flying before the punkahs. Laden, too, with melancholy husbands conveying their families to the foot of the hills, whence they would return to stew in solitude. Lewis Gordon divided these unfortunates, cynically, into two classes--those who would be sent home in charge of the khÂnsÂmah, with a menu of the first month's dinners, and an almost tearful injunction not to let the master, when he went out to dine, eat things which were likely to disagree with him; and those given over to the 'bottlewasher' who 'can cook a little, you know.' And there was truth in his cynicism. Mankind is not like an Amoeba, all stomach, yet nothing can be closer to tears than two sights often to be seen during an Indian hot weather: the one, a meal sent away untouched in favour of a clean whisky and soda; the other, an elderly Mohammedan at a big dinner-party waving the lobster salad away behind his master's back, and presenting him with cheese and biscuits instead. There is full-blown tragedy in both. Tragedy also in Lewis Gordon's cheerful remark to his companion--

'And, by the by, Robinson has been ordered home next mail. They were afraid of abscess. So that jolly little house at Simla is going a-begging. He asked me if I knew of a tenant, but it is rather late in the day, I fear, even though he only asks half-rent.'

'I'll take it,' said Gwen calmly. 'Don't stare so. The fact is, I have had a little windfall of money lately, and I hate hotels. This will be almost as cheap, and much more comfortable.'

'Infinitely so,' assented Lewis. The house was fully a mile nearer his quarters at Colonel Tweedie's and that was a great convenience, especially during the rains.