"Oh, yes; Ibrahim says it is well known. There is another—I heard Mrs. Jones telling it to mother, and she said she knew it was true. Shall I go on?" "Yes, if you like—it is quite an Indian night's entertainment." "Well," beginning in a formal little voice, "some gentlemen were driving up from the station; they were very late, and they saw a mess house all lit up, and the compound packed with carriages and bullock bandies, and they said, 'Why, it is a big ball, and we never heard a word about it.' So they stopped on the road and looked on. They could see right into the room, and there were crowds of people dancing—but the strange thing was, there was not one face they knew." "Well, I'm not surprised at that," exclaimed her listener derisively. "Please don't interrupt—they drove on after a while——" "They ought to have gone in to supper." "_Philip!_" she expostulated. "Next morning they asked about the great ball in the cavalry lines, and people thought they were joking; there had not been a dance for weeks, but these men were quite positive, and they rode down to have a look at the house. It had not been used for years and years, and was crammed with rubbish and old broken furniture; the compound was all grass and weeds, and there was not a trace or mark of a carriage." "And what did they make of that?" inquired Gascoigne. "Oh, people just shook their heads, and said something about an old story, and the mutiny, and that a great many ladies were killed in that messhouse one night—and the servants have heaps of tales." "I don't want to hear their tales, and I wish you would not listen to them," he said sharply. "Why?" with a look of bewildered injury, "how can I help it, when they are talking all round me? The ayah's sister and her niece come in, and bring a huka and sit on the floor of the nursery and gossip when mother is out, and I can't sleep; they talk, ever so much, all the station gup, oh, _such_ stories. Why are you so solemn, cousin Phil?" she asked suddenly, gazing up at his face in the moonlight; "why are you so grave; what are you thinking about?" "Then I will tell you, Angel; I am thinking about _you_—it is full time you were at home." "So I am at home. Here we are—the gate is open. Oh, what a shy!" as Sally executed a deep curtsey to a long black shadow. "I mean England," giving Sally a flip; "would you not like to go there?" "No; for I don't want to leave mother. Anyway, she cannot afford to send me to school. She owes such a _lot_ of money; there she is on the verandah watching for us; and oh! I am so sorry this drive is over—thank you a million thousand times." "I am afraid we are rather late," he called out to Mrs. Wilkinson, "but I've brought her back safe and sound." "Yes, thank goodness; it is after eight o'clock, and I began to be nervous." "I'm sorry I am behind time, but it is such a fine moonlight night, and Angel has been telling me stories."