Lenox put out a hand to steady him across the room. "He's going to beat me at picquet now, by way of gratitude," Quita remarked, shaking out his pillows and settling him in. "Are _you_ off anywhere, _mon cher_?" "Yes: to the P. I. sports. I'm one of the judges." "Then it would be quite useless to go with you. But I'll ride down, if you like." Lenox hesitated. He had seen the shadow of disappointment in his subaltern's eyes. "N . . no," he said at length. "Better stop and play with Dick. When I come back I'll get you up into the trap, old man, and take you for a drive before dinner. Who's coming, Quita? Just the Desmonds and Courtenay?" "Yes; and the Ollivers." "I'm glad. She's good company." "Which is more than I can say of _him_," Quita remarked, as the door closed behind her husband. "And he takes me in. Poor me! But you'll be on the other side; and you must be very kind to me to make up." He smiled gravely upon her, without replying. She had established herself on a low stool fronting him; elbows on knees, hands framing her face, her fearless eyes searching his own. "What are you smiling at?" she asked. "The notion of a great buffer like me being 'kind' to _you_. It's you and Lenox who are a long sight too kind to me. You're spoiling me between you. Why didn't you go to the sports with him just now?" "Because I didn't choose!" she answered sweetly. "And as for spoiling,--what else did we have you here for? The only thing I ask in return is that you will give up this nonsense about not letting me paint your portrait. Will you, please?" He was silent a moment, tugging at his fair moustache, his eyes avoiding hers. Then: "It wouldn't be worth all the work you'd put into it," he objected with an uneasy laugh. "I'm the best judge of that. Inspiration's been dead in me for months; and now that you have set the spark ablaze, it's hardly fair or gracious to fling cold water on the poor thing. But of course if the sittings would bore you, now you can move about a bit----" "Bore me? Mrs Lenox!" He looked straight at her now, emphatic denial in his gaze; and she nodded contentedly, knowing that her point was gained. "That's a mercy," she said. "Put on your service kit to-morrow morning, and we'll start in earnest. I'm longing to begin. But in the meantime you are generously permitted to beat me at picquet!" The dinner that evening was, as Quita explained, "Just a family affair," to celebrate Richardson's good progress, and drink success to the punitive expedition, which on that very day was filing through the Gomal Pass into Mahsud territory, to take toll, not only in men's lives, but 'in steer and gear and stack' for that day of treachery and black disaster, whose hidden motive still remained a mystery even to those most intimate with the tribes of the district.