It was an unprecedented honour for Pussy to be invited to tea at the big bungalow, and when Verona had arranged her hair, and dressed her in a white skirt and pink silk blouse, she looked surprisingly handsome. Indeed, when Mrs. Lepell shook hands with her, and noticed the look of timid self-approval on her pretty dark face, she began to realise Mrs. Chandos in her youth. She had invited the girl as a screen and companion for her friend Verona, and the three sat out under the bamboo trees and had tea. Pussy felt excessively nervous, yet triumphant; never before had she been thus honoured--only invited as one of the factory crowd; she gazed about her admiringly at the cane chairs and rugs and books. While her sister and her hostess conversed, she munched cakes and chocolates--stared at them steadily and mentally compared the two. Verona was quite as much a great lady as Mrs. Lepell, her eyes were so queenly; she sat with such ease, with her pretty hands in her lap, and even in a plain cambric gown she seemed beautifully dressed. Here was Mr. Salwey riding up on his splendid black horse--how fine he looked! She surveyed him furtively as he came quickly down the steps, in his neat brown riding boots, his light coat, his tie and his hat. What blue, blue eyes he had! How quiet they were, and yet they seemed to see everything with their cool, watchful glance! He was almost the only gentleman of Pussy's acquaintance; he was Pussy's idea of a story-book hero; everyone of her favourites fitted him, but he was better, and handsomer, and cleverer than them all. She looked up to Salwey as her ideal--but had bestowed her heart on his antipodes. "Well, Aunt Liz," he said, coming forward with a smile. "Oh, Brian, I am glad to see you! I thought you were on duty." "No, I'm on pleasure," and he nodded to Pussy with a friendly air. "This is my nephew--Brian Salwey," said Mrs. Lepell. "Brian, let me introduce you to Miss Verona Chandos." Verona inclined her head; he bowed profoundly and, as he moved aside some papers, and took a chair, Brian Salwey was inwardly telling himself that this young person--was no half-caste; she looked like a lady of high degree, with her delicate features and well set-on head. "And here," resumed his aunt, turning to the shy, dark girl, with eyes like fixed stars, "is Miss Pussy, with whom you are already acquainted." "Oh, yes; Miss Pussy has often been down to my place with her brother--and seen my ponies." "Oh, they are lovelee! such beauties! Oh, I do love ponies," she exclaimed, then wriggled, and relapsed into a condition of smothered giggling. What a curious contrast was afforded by the English and the Indian sisters! One seemed a refined, cultivated girl of the world--the other, a daughter of the bazaars! Could education achieve so much with respect to deportment and voice?