“Jervis to propose to a girl, and then run away!” he cried indignantly. “About the last fellow in Shirani to do such a mean trick. Jervis is a gentleman to the soles of his boots, and a real good chap, worth fifty of Waring.” “Yes, so we all learn _now_, when it’s rather late in the day,” retorted Lalla, sarcastically. “You mean about the money! But I mean in other ways. He took it awfully well the day I nearly smashed up him and Mrs. Sladen; you saw that yourself! He certainly lay low with regard to the fact of his being wealthy. He is the least ostentatious fellow I ever met, and as straight as a die, a complete contrast to the great Clarence, who has been playing the deuce up at Simla, by all accounts, and making ducks and drakes of any quantity of coin.” “Well, at least, we know _where_ he is, and _what_ he is doing!” retorted Lalla. “But no one can say the same of the cousin. Where is he, and what is _he_ doing? He was always very close about himself, and I consider the whole thing most suspicious. Supposing a man proposed for me.” “Yes, supposing a man proposed for you,” repeated Toby, edging nearer to the lady. “And I accepted him. Now, don’t look so utterly idiotic, for mercy’s sake! And he simply took to his heels and ran away, would I not think that peculiar conduct? I must say Honor Gordon takes it better than I should, under the circumstances.” “How soon are you going to get rid of that fellow Gloster?” inquired Toby irrelevantly. Sir Gloster was bringing a tedious convalescence to an end, and taking daily airings in Mrs. Langrishe’s rickshaw; and people, who were disappointed of a wedding in one quarter, were eagerly expecting to hear of one in another. “I don’t know,” coquettishly. “Perhaps I may _never_ get rid of him!” “You know you only say that to make me wretched. You don’t really mean it, do you?” pleaded Toby, with such a look of misery on his usually merry face, that Miss Paske burst into an uncontrollable scream of laughter, and said-- “Toby, how can you be so exquisitely silly?” The few days Mark Jervis had written of had grown into ten, and he had almost slipped out of people’s minds, save when a string of ponies being led along by their syces, and wearing smart jhools, with the initials M. J., brought him momentarily to remembrance. And now Captain Waring suddenly reappeared. He came direct from Simla, back to despised Shirani, and in anything but his usual cheery spirits. How he had cursed his coolies and ponies on the way up! What a life the _débonnaire_ Clarence had led his miserable servants, as if the poor wretches were responsible for his discomfiture, his bad luck, his ruin, for it had come to that--and it was a desperate man, who spurred his distressed country-bred pony up the last two miles of the dusty cart road.