“H’m, well--within limits,” said Sir Dugald. CHAPTER XX. THE ISLE OF AVILION. “Miss Sahib, the Doctor Sahib!” “The door is shut,” said Penelope hastily; but Dr Tarleton had followed the servant up the stairs, and now stood on the house-top confronting her. She glanced wildly round for a way of escape, but there was none, and she was obliged to go forward and hold out a nerveless hand to him. He looked her steadily in the face. “It’s no good trying to run away from me, Miss Ross. I was determined to see you.” “Thank you, but there is nothing the matter with me,” wilfully misunderstanding him. “Not with you, perhaps, but with other people.” He sat down, uninvited. “Oh, if I can be of any use----” but she spoke listlessly, and her eyes had sought the mountains again. The doctor regarded her with a kind of restrained fury. “It makes one’s blood boil,” he burst out, “to see a man--old enough to know better, too--breaking his heart over a girl’s silly whims, and then to find the girl absolutely wrapped up in herself and her own selfish sorrow!” “Are you speaking of me?” asked Penelope, turning to him in astonishment. She could scarcely believe her ears. “I am, and of the Chief. How dare you treat him in this way? Isn’t it enough for a man to have the whole military and civil charge of the district, and the burden of keeping the peace all along this frontier, upon his shoulders, without his work being made harder by the woman who ought to help him? Do you know that he worries himself about you to such an extent that it interferes with his work?” “I didn’t know---- What do you mean? Did he tell you?” stammered Penelope, utterly confounded by this attack. “Tell me? Do you know him no better than that? Of course not. But I have eyes, and Keeling and I have been friends for five-and-twenty years. Do you expect me to be blind when I know he can’t settle to anything, and snaps at every one who comes near him, and contradicts his own orders, and rides all night instead of taking proper rest? Don’t pretend it’s not your fault. You know it is. For some reason or other he does you the honour to care for you, and you won’t see him or speak to him or send him a message, until he takes it into his head that he has mortally offended you--how or why, you know best.” “I didn’t know,” murmured Penelope again. “Oh, but you must be mistaken. It isn’t like him. Why should he care so much--all because of me?” “Don’t know, I’m sure. Some men are made that way,” said the doctor grimly. “But there it is. And you, who ought to be on your knees thanking God for the love of such a man, are doing your best to drive him mad. What is a woman’s heart made of? Don’t you see what an honour it is for you that he should even have thought of you? Don’t let me see you laugh. Don’t dare.” “I--I’m not laughing,” she faltered hysterically. “But--but--oh, why didn’t he come himself instead of sending you? I never thought----”