Dominga had a second secret--a declared, and not impossible, lover--in a certain Mr. Charles Young, a subaltern in the Muffineers; he was a merry, round-faced boy, known to his friends as "Baby Charles," and he humbly worshipped the Red Chandos. To tell the truth, they were privately engaged. The fact was never suspected, for it was a well-established tradition that no one took "D.C." seriously. She had been flaring about Rajahpore for five years, and was all very well to flirt or dance with, but to bring into a regiment--no, thank you! At a whisper of the news the commanding officer would have bundled Baby Charles out of the place--to a hill depôt--a garrison class--anywhere, rather than submit one of his subalterns to the claws of the Lal Billi. The pair had been engaged for six happy weeks; they posted notes to one another in "Mrs. Beeton's Household Management"--a volume in the Club Library--and they sat together holding tender conversation on the Club roof, which was flat and unfrequented--few ever ascended there--whilst Mrs. Chandos waited, and wondered, in the family victoria. She was not in the secret, and fondly believed her fair daughter to be detained in the reading-room. Although Dominga was not in love, she was satisfied with her prospects. Charlie was young, and poor, and rather stupid, but he was an English officer--his father was an old retired General. If nothing better offered, she intended to marry him, and thus make her escape from Manora--shaking its dust for ever from off her feet. Once married and presented to the regiment as Mrs. Charles Vavasour-Young, she resolved to enact the _rôle_ of officer's wife, to the best of her ability. She was young, she was lively, she was--unless all men were liars--handsome. She could sing and dance like a professional, and would have a glorious time and go far. Meanwhile, Blanche, in her dingy little bungalow, and Lizzie Trotter, and Ada Diaz would die of sheer envy and jealousy--this reflection afforded Dom a species of intoxicating rapture. It was surprising that Dom had never been in love, although her flirtations were notorious and countless; and she could have married Tom Trotter, Alonzo Diaz, and a stout Eurasian doctor (Edinburgh M.B.); also, she would have married, had he been willing, Brian Salwey, but she had made up her mind that, unless she could "better herself," she was determined to compel her mother to give her money and her countenance, and to try her fortune on the Calcutta stage. Dom's lithe, seemingly boneless figure had been supreme in skirt dancing at the school; her dancing had a charm, which her singing lacked. She represented the very poetry of motion, and seemed to drift before the eye like some exquisite summer cloud.