“Would he? Then what would he do if he thought his wife deceived him? Wouldn’t he mind?” George sprang up to his feet, and took a few turns about the room. He was appalled by this fearful perversion of mind, by this terrible candour, and he thought with a shudder of Rahas’ statement that the women of the East have no souls. How should he set to work to make her see things with his eyes? He glanced at her, and saw that she had changed her attitude; curling her feet up under her, and leaning her head on her hand, she sat quite still, nothing moving but her eyes, watching him. He came back, knelt before her, and looked into her face. “In England, Nouna,” he said very gently, “when a man wants a wife, he chooses a girl whom he believes to be so good, so true, so noble that he couldn’t possibly think she would do anything that wasn’t right. And he loves her with all his heart, and never thinks of anybody but her, and spends all his time trying to make her happy. So he never thinks about such a dreadful thing as her deceiving him, because, you see, she couldn’t, unless she was very wicked, treat a man badly when he was so good to her.” “Then what Sundran says is all wrong.” “Who is Sundran?” “My servant, my ayah. She says that Englishmen love other women besides their wife, who is only like the chief wife in our country, and that Englishwomen are not so good as Indian ladies, because they are not shut up.” “Sundran must be sent away. She tells you falsehoods,” said George indignantly. “She shall not be sent away,” retorted Nouna, flashing out at once into passion. “She loves me. It is she who tells me of the land where I was born, who sings me my Indian songs, and tells me the tales of my own country. She shall not go.” George did not press the point, though he made an inward vow to remove this most noxious influence as soon as he had authority over the wayward creature before him. “And doesn’t some one else love you, Nouna?” he asked reproachfully, looking into her flashing eyes; “some one whom you are treating very cruelly this evening?” The appeal melted her at once, or rather it turned the passion of anger into a passion of affection. She threw her arms round his neck and fervently kissed his mouth, nestling her red lips under his moustache, and scratching his left ear fearfully with the beadwork on her mantle. “I am not cruel, I love you,” she said earnestly. “I came here to-night because I could not live without seeing you again; only I will not marry you; I have made up my mind to that.” “But why, Nouna, why?” asked poor George in consternation. “We are not of the same race; we should not be happy; Rahas is right. If I made you angry, you would look as you did to-night, and you would kill me.” “But, Nouna, I am not a savage; I don’t get angry over little things. And I should never be angry with you.”