"Cha-a-ah! I am not beside myself," screamed the fury with a stamp, "and if you will listen--all of you--you shall hear the true story." As she spoke, she flung herself panting into a chair. "Oh! it is more than twenty-six years ago since I married that oloo" (owl), and she indicated Mr. Chandos as she spoke and stared back deliberately into every gazing face. "Oh, he was so lazy! We lived up in the hills at first--and he used to just loaf and shoot; one cannot pay bazaar on that. We had two children, Blanche and Pussy; they were--not fair, no, and I could see that he was awfully disappointed. Money was low just before our third child was expected, and so he went down to the plains to seek for an appointment. The baby, a little girl, was born at Murree. She was very dark--once again--_so_ dark! I knew you would be very vexed," turning on him; "you were always hoping for a fair baby--that would be a true Chandos." Mr. Chandos endeavoured to interrupt, but she silenced him with a wild gesture of her hand. "No, no, no! Wait! wait! wait! I will not be long. In the little bungalow next to mine was a pretty young English girl, an officer's wife; she had a baby and she died, but her baby lived. I lived--my baby died. You begin to see. Eh?" She paused and gazed about her. Her audience were now dumb. "Her husband, a young artillery officer, was crazy with grief. Aré, it was bad! They were not long out from home, and seemed friendless. He was going to Afghanistan immediately on active service; our bungalows were in the same compound, and so he came to me, and he said: