He tore open the large square envelope, and went on reading with the same idle interest. "There's been an accident with the blasting," he observed casually. "Five men killed. Our native friend is, of course, in a fever. Has pensioned all the families. I don't know where he will land us with his extravagances. We shall want all the money we can get for repairing the damage. Philanthropy is becoming a sort of disease with him. Fortunately, I am not bitten so far." He laughed, and threw the letter to one side. "I expect I shall have to run up north to put things straight." "Hasn't the mine brought in enough?" Lois answered innocently. "Enough?" He looked at her with a twinkle in his bright eyes. "Dear girl, it hasn't paid so much as a quarter of its expenses." "But will it ever?" "Heaven knows--or perhaps even Heaven does not. I'm sure I don't." "You talk so calmly about it!" she exclaimed, aghast. "Surely you are heavily involved--and not only you, but the Rajah and the people in Marut?" He patted her on the cheek. "Don't worry on that score," he assured her. "Besides, it's not my way to sit down and cry over what can't be helped. I dare say I shall pull through somehow." "Yes, _you_, perhaps." He changed color slightly under the challenge in her eyes, but his expression remained unruffled. "You are not exactly a very trusting wife, are you, Lois? It comes of letting a woman have a look into business. Never mind, we won't argue the subject all over again. I know what you think of me. There, good-by. I must be off again. Nicholson will be around shortly. I told him he would find me at home." "Had you not better wait for him, then?" "Oh, no. I only told him I should be at home as a sort of _facon de parler_. He only comes when he thinks I am there--admirable person--and I know you like to have old friends about. Good-by, dear." "Good-by." She accepted his kiss listlessly, and when he had gone went back to the window. The window had become Lois Travers' vantage-point of life. From thence she could overlook the bustling Madras square into which four streets poured their unending stream, and build her fancies about each one of the atoms as they passed unconsciously beneath her gaze. Some of the faces were well known to her. They always passed at the time when she took her sewing and sat by the window, pretending to work by the fading glow of evening light, and about each she wove a simple little story, always, or nearly always, happy. She imagined the men returning from business to their homes. If there was ever a cloud upon their brow, she smiled to think how the trouble would be brushed away by loving hands; if their step were more than usually light and elastic, her own heart grew lighter with the thought that they were hurrying back to the source of their happiness.