She turned her face up again at last. "I told you it was madness to marry me," she said tremulously. "I told you you would repent." He looked at her with a strange smile. "And I told you it was--Kismet," he said. "You did it because it was written that you should. For better for worse--" his voice vibrated--"you and I are bound by the same Fate. It was inevitable, and there can be no repentance, just as there can be no turning back. But you needn't hate India on that account. I have told you that I will give her up for your sake, and that stands. But I will not give you up for India--or for any other power on earth. Now are you satisfied?" Her face quivered at the question. "It is--more than I deserve," she said. "You shall give up nothing for me." He put his hand upon her forehead. "Stella, will you give her a trial? Give her a year! Possibly by that time I may tell you more than I am able to tell you now. I don't know if you would welcome it, but there are always a chosen few to whom success comes. I may be one of the few. I have a strong belief in my own particular star. Again I may fail. If I fail, I swear I will give her up. I will start again at some new job. But will you be patient for a year? Will you, my darling, let me prove myself? I only ask--one year." Her eyes were full of tears. "Everard! You make me feel--ashamed," she said. "I won't--won't--be a drag on you, spoil your career! You must forgive me for being jealous. It is because I love you so. But I know it is a selfish form of love, and I won't give way to it. I will never separate you from the career you have chosen. I only wish I could be a help to you." "You can only help me by being patient--just at present," he said. "And not asking tiresome questions!" She smiled at him though her tears had overflowed. "But oh, you won't take risks, will you? Not unnecessary risks? It is so terrible to think of you in danger--to think--to think of that horrible deformed creature who sent--Ralph--" She broke off shuddering and clinging to him. It was the first time she had ever spoken of her first husband by name to him. He dried the tears upon her cheeks. "My own girl, you needn't be afraid," he said, and though his words were kind she wondered at the grimness of his voice. "I am not the sort of person to be disposed of in that way. Shall we talk of something less agitating? I can't have you crying on our wedding-night." His tone was repressive. She was conscious of a chill. Yet it was a relief to turn from the subject, for she recognized that there was small satisfaction to be derived therefrom. The sun was setting moreover, and it was growing cold. She let him lead her back into the bungalow, and they presently sat down at the table that Peter had prepared with so much solicitude.