She wished he would not take the trouble to be gracious to her, but he was always gracious to European ladies and there was no escape. The British polish over the Oriental suavity seemed to her a decidedly incongruous mixture. She infinitely preferred the purely Oriental. "My _shikari_ has told me of a man-eater at Khantali," he said presently. "You have not seen a tiger-hunt yet? I must arrange an expedition, and you and Captain Ratcliffe will join?" Olga explained that she had never done any shooting. "But you will like to look on," he said. She hesitated. "I am afraid," she said, after a moment, "I don't like seeing things killed." "No?" said the Rajah politely. She wondered if the dusky eyes veiled contempt, and felt a little uncomfortable in consequence of the wonder. "You have never killed--anything?" he asked, in a tone of courteous interest. "Nothing bigger than a beetle," said Olga. "Really!" said the Rajah. This time she was sure he was feeling bored, and she began to wish that Noel would reappear and lighten the atmosphere. As if in answer to the wish, there came the sudden tinkle of a stringed instrument in one of the marble recesses behind them, and almost immediately a man's voice, very soft and musical, began to sing: "O, wert thou in the cauld blast, On yonder lea, on yonder lea, My plaidie to the angry airt, I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee. Or did misfortune's bitter storms Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, Thy bield should be my bosom, To share it a', to share it a'." The voice ceased; the banjo thrummed on. Olga's hands were fast gripped upon the marble lattice-work. She stood tense, with white face upraised. The Rajah was wholly forgotten by her, and he stepped silently away to join another of his guests. The new English girl presented an enigma to him, but it was one in which he did not take much interest. All her fairness notwithstanding, she was not even pretty, according to his standard, and he had seen a good many pretty women. Again through the dimness the clear voice came. It held a hint--a very carefully restrained hint--of passion. "Or were I in the wildest waste, Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, The desert were a paradise If thou wert there, if thou wert there. Or were I monarch o' the globe, Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, The brightest jewel in my crown Wad be my queen, wad be my queen." The song was ended; the banjo throbbed itself into silence. Olga's hands went up to her face. She wanted to keep the silence, to hold it fast, while she chased down that elusive phantom that dodged her memory. Ah! A voice beside her, Nick's arm through hers! She raised her face. The phantom had fled.