"Not that I know of." He took a great breath, like a condemned man who hears his reprieve. "Then, may I still believe . . . what you told me at Lahore?" Her answer seemed an eternity in coming; for a plain 'yes' or 'no' were equally far from the truth. This boy of four-and-twenty gave her the restful sense of reliance and reserve force that she so missed in Maurice. But there was no art, no thrill in his love-making. It was direct and simple as himself. He never struck a chord of emotion and left it quivering, as Maurice had done many times. "May I?"--he persisted gently. "I still think you are . . . the best man I know," she admitted, without looking at him; and he flushed to the roots of his hair. "But not the one you--care for most? It's that that matters, you know." "Oh, I can't tell--truly I can't," she pleaded distressfully. "Then I must just go on waiting." "I wish you wouldn't even do that." "I can only prevent it by putting a bullet through my head." The quiet finality of his tone was more convincing than volumes of protestations; and she shuddered. "Don't say such things, please.--You hurt me." "I wouldn't do that for a kingdom. But it's the truth.--I go down on the fifteenth, you know." "Yes.--I'm sorry." "Are you? Then why--oh, I don't understand you!" he broke off in despair. "I'm not sure that I understand myself--yet. It takes time, I suppose." "Not when the right chap turns up, I fancy. But I'll give you as much time as you want. I have a year's leave due. Shall I take it, and go home?" She looked rueful. "A year is a long time. But perhaps that would be best. You might find--some one else there, who understood herself better." "That's out of the question," he answered almost harshly. "But at all events,--I'll go." A prolonged silence followed this statement: and when he spoke again, it was of other things. Elsie followed suit: but the result was not brilliant. She endured the strain as long as she could; then inventing an excuse, she left him; though, to her surprise, it hurt her more than she could have believed a week ago. That afternoon, during the progress of a hybrid gymkhana,--ranging from steeplechasing to obstacle races for men and natives,--the first whisper of current gossip reached Lenox's ears. Standing behind a restless row of hats and parasols, he was watching with some interest the preliminary canter of a horse he had backed heavily, when Garth and Quita, deep in animated talk, passed across the line of chairs, and a woman close to Lenox turned to her neighbour. "That match is a certainty, Mrs Mayhew. Say what you like. I'm sure of it. I only wonder it hasn't been given out before now." Mrs Mayhew shifted her parasol and inspected the retreating pair through her gold-rimmed pince-nez, as though, by examining their shoulder-blades, she could determine the exact state of their hearts.