Sir Dugald had gone round to the artillery lines after leaving the office, and returned thither in the course of an hour or two, expecting to find Major Keeling still at work; but the room was empty, save for the presence of young Bigg, the European clerk, and the native writers. Bigg looked up and grinned when Sir Dugald entered. “Want the Chief? He’s gone up to the fort.” “Already? Why, dinner isn’t for two hours yet.” “I didn’t say he had gone to dinner, did I? If you asked me, I should say he had gone for something quite different. I heard him giving his boy _gali_ [a scolding] because his spurs were not bright. What does that look like, eh?” “Looks to me as if you wanted your head punched. It’s like your impudence to go spying on the Chief,” said Sir Dugald gloomily, but Bigg chuckled unabashed. At the fort Lady Haigh, immersed in preparations for the dinner-party, found herself suddenly addressed by Major Keeling. “Miss Ross is not helping you?” he said. “No, she was worn out after all the excitement this morning, so I made her go and rest in the drawing-room with a book. I wanted her to be fresh for to-night.” “Then I will go and find her.” There was repressed excitement in his manner, and Lady Haigh, looking after him, found herself confronted with the question her husband had already faced. Ought she to tell him? “No,” she said to herself, setting her teeth with a snap. “Dugald forbade me to interfere in the matter in any way, and I won’t. And I only hope the Major will be able to persuade her to have him and give up Ferrers.” Penelope, in the shaded drawing-room, lifted her heavy eyes from the book she had obediently chosen, and saw Major Keeling’s tall figure framed in the doorway. She had heard him ride up, had heard his voice speaking to Lady Haigh, and had assured herself, with what she thought was relief, that he would come no further. Mr Crayne had brought him in, when he returned to the fort, and demanded the congratulations of the ladies on his behalf, and what more could he have to say? But here he was, entering the room with the care which had aroused Ferrers’ derision months before, and trying to lower his voice lest it should be too loud for her. “Shall I worry you, Miss Ross, or may I come and talk to you a little? I feel as if I couldn’t work this afternoon.” “I don’t wonder,” said Penelope, surprising herself in a sudden pang as she thought how splendid he looked. “Won’t you sit down?” To her surprise he took a chair at some distance from her, and seated himself thoughtfully. “I am going to ask you to let me talk about myself,” he said--“unless it would bore you?” “Oh no!” she answered quickly. “I should like to hear it very much.”