"Oh, no--please have mercy on me! Explanations are the root of all evil! If only people had not such a passion for explaining themselves, there would be fifty per cent fewer misunderstandings in the world. Don't you know the delightful story of a zealous mother reading the Bible to her boy, and explaining profusely to bring it within the scope of his small mind, and when she asked him, anxiously, 'Are you quite sure you understand it all, darling?' he answered, with the heavenly frankness of childhood, 'Yes, beautifully, mummy--except when you explain.' That's my feeling exactly; so we'll skip the explanations, if you don't mind." He stifled an oath, and flung his half-smoked cigar down the khud. "You're enough to drive a sane man distracted!" he declared hotly, and was not a little surprised at his own vehemence. "No, no! That's exaggeration, I assure you. The strong wine of the morning has got into your head. Do be reasonable now, and keep personalities at arm's length. I detest them." He moved away for a space; then, turning on his heel, came back again. "At least you don't object to my companionship?" he said, ignoring her request. "Of course not, so long as it amuses you to bestow it upon me." "Amuses me! God in heaven, what makes you so hopelessly detached?" "Some radical defect in me, I suppose. The Pagan strain, perhaps, that comes out so strong in Michael. I believe I am incapable of _les grandes passions_. But that does not prevent me from being a good friend, and a constant one, as you will find, if you care to test me in that capacity. Now you may sit down here," she patted her slab of rock invitingly, "and discourse about anything you please, except myself. Egoist though I am, I have had enough of the subject for to-day!" And Garth--the man of surface emotions and ready tongue--found nothing to say in answer to this kindly but inexorable dismissal of his unspoken suit. He had no choice but to accept the inevitable, and the proffered seat. But the permission to discourse about anything he pleased left him dumb, and it was Quita herself who guided their talk into a less personal channel. "Have you had any new arrivals at the Strawberry Bank lately?" she asked, conversationally; and the question was more relevant to the tabooed topic than Garth was likely to guess. He lived close to the hotel, and dined there when he felt convivially disposed. "Yes; two new fellows came up this week. A doctor from Mooltan and a Gunner from 'Dera Dismal,'--the Thibet man,--Lenox, who seems to be making a reputation of sorts. But he looks a wreck. Smokes like a chimney; and is apparently working himself to death; a thankless form of folly." "Perhaps. Yet India needs a few unsparing workers--like Captain Lenox." She spoke with studied indifference; but her fingers were busy uprooting a patch of moss.