"How refreshing it is here, after that glaring courtyard! This place is getting too hot already. I _do_ wish Theo would let me go to Simla again this year. Last season the Walters asked him to let me join them; and it was simply lovely. Though I didn't half like leaving him behind; and I suppose I shan't like it much this year either." "Then why go at all?" suggested practical Honor. "You're not obliged to. Surely Mrs Olliver stays?" "Mrs Olliver! She's not a woman! She's a Regimental Institution. I can't think _what_ the men see in her to make such a fuss about! A plain, badly-made Irishwoman, who dresses abominably. And she's much too casual with all of them--especially with Theo, even if she _did_ save his life from typhoid fever." Honor made no immediate reply. It was only charitable to suppose that an overdose of sunshine and block tea was responsible for the note of irritation in Evelyn's tone. "I suppose you think I ought to imitate her," Mrs Desmond went on, after an expectant pause. "Kohat is hateful enough in the cold weather, and with heat and cholera, and flies added, it would kill me outright! Besides, I don't believe a man loves one any better for that sort of thing in the end. He probably gets horribly bored, and doesn't like to say so. Besides--Theo _prefers_ me to go, he _said_ so; and that settles everything quite comfortably for us both. By the way, I've been planning a sort of introduction picnic for you, only that stupid tea-party put it out of my head. I'll make out a list of people at once and send the invitations out this evening." She crossed over to her bureau, which, apart from the piano, was the only piece of furniture the room contained that in England would be considered worthy of the name. While she sat absorbed in her congenial task, Desmond entered equipped for polo, and after a few words with Honor went over to his wife. "What are you so taken up with, Ladybird?" he asked. "Something lovely! A picnic--for Honor." Desmond laughed. "Six for her and half a dozen for yourself! Let's see who we're inviting." He ran his eye down the list of guests--twelve in all. At sight of the last two names--Mr Kresney, Miss Kresney--he frowned sharply, and taking up his wife's discarded pencil ran a broad black line through both. She pushed his hand aside with an unusual display of irritation. "What did you do _that_ for?" she demanded, a ring of defiance in her voice. "I want to ask the Kresneys; and I will--all the same." "Indeed, little woman, you'll do nothing of the sort." "Why? What's wrong with them, Theo? They're quite decent people, as far as I can see." "Which doesn't prove that you can see very far! You must just take my word for it, that whatever else they may be, the Kresneys are not our sort at all."