"No, Theo. It wouldn't be fair. You belong to the Frontier. Every one says so. And--I shall get used to it in time." She spoke mechanically, without turning her head; and Desmond's arm went round her on the instant. "But you haven't got to think of me," he urged. "I want to do what will make you happy. That's all." "It--it wouldn't make me happy. And, please, don't talk about it any more." At that he drew her down to him. "God bless you, my darling!" he whispered. But even in speaking he knew that he could not accept her sacrifice; that her courage--barely equal to the verbal renunciation--would be crushed to powder in the crucible of days and years. For the moment, however, it seemed best to drop the subject, since nothing definite could be done without Honor's consent. "Now I ought to be attending to my business!" she said, freeing herself with a little nervous laugh. "It's getting too light. I must put out the lamp and dress you up in your shade again, you poor, patient Theo. Then we'll have _chota hazri_ together." She moved away from him quickly, and not quite steadily. She had let slip her one chance of escape, and she did not know why she had done it. The impulse to refuse had been unreasoning, overpowering; and now it was all over she only knew that she had done what Honor would approve, and what she herself would regret to the end of her life. How far the girl whose soul had been concentrated on Evelyn's uplifting was responsible for her flash of self-sacrifice, is a problem that must be left for psychologists to solve. Desmond had only one thought in his brain that morning--"How in the world am I going to tackle Honor?" He foresaw a pitched battle, ending in possible defeat; and decided to defer it till he felt more physically fit for the strain. For he possessed the rapid recuperative power of his type; and, the fever once conquered, each day added a cubit to his returning vigour. One night, towards the close of the second week of his illness, he awoke suddenly from dreamless sleep to alert wakefulness, a sense of renewed health and power thrilling through his veins. He passed a hand across his forehead and eyes, for the pure pleasure of realising their freedom from the disfiguring bandage, and glanced toward the writing-table, whence the too familiar screened lamp flung ghostly lights and shadows up among the bare rafters twenty feet above. It was Honor who sat beside it now, in a loose white wrapper, her head resting on her hand, an open book before her. The light fell full upon her profile, emphasising its nobility of outline--the short straight nose, the exquisite moulding of mouth and chin; while all about her shoulders fell the burnished mantle of her hair.