In the open houses of India there is no privacy. Mark Cheveril, busy over his letters in the adjoining room, had not failed, though much against his will, to overhear the whole conversation. He could gather that Mr. Morpeth had evidently called on some errand, and had been insultingly dismissed. It was a painful revelation, made more so by his recollection of Alfred Rayner's attitude to the man who had been almost trampled under the hoofs of his horses. Mark had been vividly reminded of the incident when he observed Mr. Morpeth's evident agitation at the sight of Hester on Mrs. Fellowes' lawn. Possibly the old man thought Mr. Rayner was also of the party, and shrank from meeting him. In the interest of his talk with the gracious host in his own library, the recollection of the painful scene in the mail-phaeton had been overlaid for Mark. Since then he had neither opportunity nor inclination to tell Mr. Rayner of his meeting with the despised East Indian, knowing well that he would not sympathise with the intense interest and admiration which had grown up already in his heart towards David Morpeth. And now the overheard words seemed more than likely to prove an impassable barrier to any mention of the subject, unless he was prepared to fight the bitter prejudice in the open. Even more grievous to Mark had been the note of pain in Hester's voice when she remonstrated with her husband. Surely Rayner's attitude to these people was the outcome of a shallow and vulgar mind! Were gentle Mrs. Bellairs' fears concerning this union too likely to be realised? He was at the moment engaged in writing to that anxious mother far away. What could he say now to alleviate her fears, to send assurance that all was well with her beloved daughter? Yet on many grounds it was not for him to be the sender of even a breath of evil tidings. No, he must probe the matter further, he decided.