Brian Salwey lived in a bungalow overhanging the river, and close to the cantonments (he was honorary member of the mess). The rooms were small and bare, but the stables were ample, and handsomely furnished. Twice a week, in the cold weather, did Nicky Chandos row down the river to do an hour's mathematics with his model and hero. Salwey had always been sorry for the boy, and felt drawn to him; for with all his Eastern lounging ways, his stiff brown hair and sallow skin, Nicky had brains, had ambition and the inherited instincts of an English gentleman. Yes, Salwey had encouraged the visits of young Chandos; he told him long yarns about his own school-days, he lent him books, he lectured him, he taught him how to row a boat--indeed, he taught him many things as they sat together in the shabby little sitting-room that overlooked the shining river. Salwey now began to realise that he took an additional interest in Nicky, and looked forward with peculiar pleasure to his visits and his talk; What, he asked himself honestly, did it mean? The answer was simple as A B C. It meant that Nicky had an attractive sister; to sum it all up in one word, it meant "Verona." He caught his thoughts recalling her pale, delicate beauty, her slow, reluctant smile, her air of detached, unstudied repose. Evidently the newcomer was working wonders up the river; she was wheeling Pussy into line; he noticed a distinct improvement in Nicky's manners, which had previously left much to be desired. He talked of good sets of tennis, and bicycling, rowing and reading aloud. Home was such a jolly place since Verona had come! There was no nonsense about her, and even Nani Lopez said she was "a jewel." But what was this "jewel" to him? Was he going to make a fool of himself, and fall in love with this beautiful, unfortunate Eurasian? What a mother-in-law! What a grandmother-in-law--as his Aunt Liz had reminded him. And yet, why should he not think of Verona Chandos? His life was lonely; he had no ties; his father had married a detestable little adventuress, and had allowed her to thrust herself between them. (Colonel Salwey was a timidly good man, and ventured to write to his son once a year--at Christmas.) Why should he not make his home in India? Do as he would, he could not get the girl out of his head; she haunted him as he sat in his verandah, or as he rode about the district, looking after his work. "She is a half-caste," whispered a warning voice; "look at her sister Blanche."