* * * * * Once more they parted at the gate of the house that was her prison. He was going back to India in ten days, and she would go with him, confidently, gladly! She walked up the path between the straggling wallflowers, the pungent marigolds, into the mean narrow hall. Then her only thought had been of sailing away from that sordid genteel abode, back to fair India, the land of her dreams. Now—now, as across these years she re-lived that great day of her youth, her heart was swooning over the memory of his kiss; her brain was filled with a vision of his tender trembling lips; of the light in his eyes as he looked back at her, of the swing of his broad shoulders as he rounded the crescent towards the fort. * * * * * Miss Aspasia Cuningham was in a decidedly bad temper. To be home again, in England, to have unlimited opportunity of working out the Leschetizky method on a superfine Steinway piano, the most complete immunity from interfering uncles, from social duties, philistine secretaries and attaches, appeared a most delightful existence—in theory. But, in practice it was dull. Yes, dull was the word. With four fingers pressing four consecutive notes while the remaining digit hammered away, vindictively, at the fifth; with pouting lip out-thrust, she had reached the point of telling herself that even India was better than this. "Horrid place," ran Baby’s angry cogitation, while the finger conscientiously drummed, "nothing but those stupid trees and that deadly moor, and the birds’ chirp, chirp, and not a neighbour within miles; or if there were, with Aunt Rosamond not wanting to see a soul; not even the curate—and he’s got eyes like marbles!" Aspasia gave a little titter and changed the drumming finger from the third to the fourth. This was a less elastic member; and she grew pink with unconscious energy, while pursuing the inner monologue. "I do think that disgusting Major Bethune might have given us some sign of life. People have no business to look into people’s eyes like that, and press people’s hands, and then go off and mean nothing at all. Not," said Baby, blowing out her nostrils with a fine breath of scorn, "that one ever thought of him in that way. But he—oh, he’s just a horrid wretch like the rest! All the nice ones die, I think. At least, I’ve never met any." She brought down the left hand in its turn, with a crash, on the five notes; and the fine discord seemed to have relieving effect. The reflections proceeded in a softer vein.