"How on earth did you contrive to do it?" he asked at last. "When one sees the duffers of men that pass----" The colour on Mona's cheek deepened. "I don't think a very large proportion of duffers pass the London University medical examinations," she said. "Of course one makes excuses for one's self. One began hospital work too soon; one's knowledge was on a plane altogether above the level of the examination papers, &c. It is only in moments of rare and exceptional honesty that one says, as I say to you now, 'I failed because I was a duffer, and did not know my work.'" "Nay, you don't catch me with chaff. That is not the truth, and you don't think it is. I don't call that honesty!" But although the Sahib spoke harshly, his heart was beating very warmly towards her just then. He had always considered Mona a clever and charming girl--a little too independent, perhaps, but her habitual independence made it the more delightful to see her submitting like a child to his questions, holding herself bound apparently for the moment to answer honestly without fencing, however much the effort might cost her. "It is the truth, and nothing but the truth." she said. "I venture sometimes to think it is not the whole truth." "Shall you go in again?" "Yes." "When?" "July." "Do you think you will pass?" "No." "Then why do you do it?" "I have promised." Another long pause, and then it came unpremeditatedly with a rush. "Look here, Miss Maclean,--chuck the whole thing, and come back to India with me!" It was so absolutely unexpected, that for a moment Mona thought it was a joke. "That would be a delightfully simple way of cutting the knot of the difficulty," she said gaily, but before her sentence was finished she saw what he meant. She tried not to see it, not to show that she saw it, but the blood rushed over her face and betrayed her. "Do come," he said. "Will you? I never cared for any woman as I care for you." "Oh, Sahib," said Mona, "we cared for each other, but not in that way. You have taught me all I have missed in not having a brother." She was not sorry for him; she was intensely annoyed at his stupidity. Not for a moment did it occur to her that he might really love her. He liked her, of course, admired her, sympathised with her, at the present moment pitied her; but did he really suppose that a woman might not gladly accept his friendship, admiration, sympathy, even his pity, without wishing to have it all translated into the vulgar tangible coin of an offer of marriage? Was marriage for a woman, like money for a beggar, the sole standard by which all good feeling was to be tried?