The French windows of Mrs. Langrishe’s drawing-room opened into a deep stone verandah embowered in honeysuckle and passion flowers, and commanded a matchless view, irrespective of the foreground, in which Mrs. Sladen’s rickshaw is the chief feature, or the gravel sweep, grass garden, and beds of pale wintry roses; but beyond the pineclad hills, among which red roofs are peeping, beyond the valley of rhododendrons, and a bold purple range, behold the snows! a long, long barrier of the everlasting hills, to such as the eyes of the psalmist had never been lifted. People may whisper that they were disappointed in the Taj, that Delhi was a delusion, and the marble rocks a snare; but who can declare that the snows were beneath his expectations? And if he were to say so, who would be found to believe him? The evening breeze is raw and chill, it has travelled sixty miles from those icy slopes, it creeps up the khud, and warns the shivering roses that the sun has set--it stirs the solemn deodars as they stand in dark outline against the sky. Mrs. Langrishe, rising from her writing-table, letter in hand, sweeps back to her friend, who is again sitting on the fender-stool, staring into the fire, thinking, perchance, of those bygone days when _she_ was a girl whose friends were anxious to get her settled. “Milly,” said her hostess, “you are passing the post-office, and you can post this for me; you had better go now, dear, as you know you have had a sore throat, and it is getting late.” Mrs. Sladen rose at once; she was accustomed to being sent on errands and to being made use of by her intimates. She pulled on her cheap gloves, twisted her stringy boa round her neck, and held out her hand for the letter that was to bring Miss Paske to Shirani. As her friend stooped and kissed her, she looked up at her wistfully, and said-- “Ida, if this girl comes to you, you won’t think of her only as a marketable article, will you? You will allow her to marry--if she does marry--to please herself, won’t you, dear?” “You silly, romantic little person!” exclaimed the other, patting her cheek with two solid taper fingers. “What an absurd question. As if any girl is ever married against her will in these enlightened days!” Mrs. Sladen made no answer beyond an involuntary sigh. She went out to the verandah, and got into her rickshaw without another word and ere she was whirled away, nodded a somewhat melancholy farewell to her handsome, prosperous-looking friend who, clad in a rich tea-gown, had framed herself for a moment in the open doorway, and called out imperiously-- “The post goes at six; you have just ten minutes.” Then, with a shiver, Mrs. Langrishe closed the window and returned to her comfortable fireside. “Poor Milly!” she muttered, as she warmed one well-shod foot. “She was always odd and sentimental. Marry to please herself--yes, by all means--but she must also marry to please _me_!” * * * * *