He looked at her with some of the interest she used to inspire in him before his chains began to gall him. “Prickly creature!” he said. “Are _you_ quite sure? Is your determination unalterable?” “I acknowledge your politeness in asking me,” she returned. “It is.” “Then I suppose I must accept it.” He spoke slowly. “But for the _soulagement_ you suggest I am afraid I must wait longer than to-morrow.” They walked on in silence, reached the rank edge of the pond, and turned to go back. The afternoon still hung mellow in mid air, and something of its tranquillity seemed to have descended between them. In their joint escape from their mutual burden they experienced a reciprocal good feeling, something like comradeship, not untouched by sentiment. Once or twice he referred to their broken bond, asking her, with the appetite of his egotism, to give him the crystal truth of the reason she had accepted him. “I accepted my idea of you,” she said simply, “which was not altogether an accurate one. Besides, I think a good deal about—a lot of questions of administration. I thought I would like to have a closer interest, perhaps a hand in them. Such fools of women do.” After which they talked in a friendly way (it has been noted that Ancram was tolerant) about how essential ambition was to the bearableness of life in India. “I see that you will be a much more desirable acquaintance,” Rhoda said once, brightly, “now that I am not going to marry you.” And he smiled in somewhat unsatisfied acquiescence. Ancram grew silent as they drew near the main avenue and the real parting. The dusk had fallen suddenly, and a little wind brought showers of yellow leaves out of the shivering bamboos. They were quite alone, and at a short distance almost indistinguishable from the ixora bushes and the palmettos. “Rhoda,” he said, stopping short, “this is our last walk together—we who were to have walked together always. May I kiss you?” The girl hesitated for an instant. “No,” she said, with a nervous laugh: “not that. It would be like the resurrection of something that had never lived and never died!” But she gave him her hand, and he kissed that, with some difficulty in determining whether he was grateful or aggrieved. “It’s really very raw,” said Miss Daye, as they approached the others; “don’t you think you had better put on your hat?” CHAPTER XI. “Rhoda,” said Mrs. Daye, as her daughter entered the drawing-room next morning, “I have thought it all out, and have decided to ask them. Mrs. St. George quite agrees with me. _She_ says, sound the Military Secretary first, and of course I will; but she thinks they are certain to accept. Afterward we’ll have the whole party photographed on the back verandah—I don’t see how they could get out of it—and that will be a souvenir for you, if you like.”