Perhaps it was the bravest stand she had ever made, and what it cost her not even Nick might guess. Certainly he had less time to bestow upon her than ever before. They met at meals, and very often that was all. But Olga, with her curious, new reserve, was not needing his companionship just then. Her attitude towards her beloved hero had subtly changed. Beloved he was still and would ever be, but he no longer dwelt apart from all other men on the special little pedestal on which her worship had placed him. He was no longer the demi-god of her childish adoration. Olga had grown up, and was shedding her illusions one by one. Nick was a man and she was a woman. Therefore it followed as a natural sequence that though she was fully capable of understanding him, she herself was--and must ever remain--a being beyond his comprehension. Not superior to him; Olga never aspired to be that. But with her woman's knowledge she realized that even Nick had his limitations. There were certain corners of her soul which he could never penetrate. He would have understood the wild crying of her heart, but her steady stifling of that crying would have been beyond him. Simply he stood on another plane, and he would not understand that her heart must break before she could listen to its passionate entreaty. Nor could she explain herself to him. She belonged to the inexplicable and unreasonable race called woman. Her motives and emotions were hidden, and she could never hope to make them understood even by the shrewdest of men. So she veiled her sorrow from him, little guessing how the vigilant eyes took in that also when they did not apparently so much as glance her way. On the morning of the day on which Sir Reginald was to arrive, he kept her waiting for breakfast, a most unusual occurrence. Olga was occupied with a letter from her father, one of his brief, kindly epistles that she valued for their very rarity; and it was not till this was finished that she realized the lateness of the hour. Then in some surprise she went along the verandah in search of him. His window stood open as usual. She paused outside it. "Nick, aren't you coming?" There was no reply to her call, and she was about to repeat it when Kasur the _khitmutgar_ came along the verandah behind her. "Miss _sahib_, Ratcliffe _sahib_ has not yet come back from the city," he said. Olga turned in astonishment. "The city, Kasur! How long has he been there? When did he go?" The man looked at her with the deferential vagueness which only the Oriental can express. "Miss _sahib_, how should I know? My lord goes in the night while his servant is asleep." "In the night!" Again incredulously she repeated his words. "And to the city! Kasur, are you sure?" Kasur became more vague. "Perhaps he goes to the cantonments, Miss _sahib_. How should I know whither he goes?"