‘But Simla isn’t related to him--Simla doesn’t care!’ Mrs. Mickie exclaimed. ‘Everybody will be as polite as possible when she turns up. You’ll see. You knew, didn’t you, that she was coming out in the Caledonia?’ ‘No,’ said Madeline. She looked carefully where she was going to put her coffee-cup, and then she glanced out again at the laburnum hanging over the plains. ‘I--I am glad to hear it. These separations you take so lightly out here are miserable, tragic.’ The other ladies did not exchange glances this time. Miss Anderson’s change of tone was too marked for comment which she might have detected. ‘Colonel Innes got the telegram this morning. She wired from Brindisi,’ Mrs. Gammidge said. ‘Does he seem pleased?’ asked Mrs. Mickie, demurely. ‘He said he was afraid she would find it very hot coming up here from Bombay. And, of course, he is worried about a house. When a man has been living for months at the Club--’ ‘Of course, poor fellow! I do love that dear old Colonel Innes, though I can’t say I know him a bit. He won’t take the trouble to be nice to me, but I am perfectly certain he must be the dearest old thing inside of him. Worth any dozen of these little bow-wows that run round after rickshaws,’ said Mrs. Mickie, with candour. ‘I think he’s a ridiculous old glacier,’ Mrs. Gammidge remarked, and Mrs. Mickie looked at Madeline and said, ‘Slap her!’ ‘What for?’ asked Miss Anderson, with composure. ‘I dare say he is--occasionally. It isn’t a bad thing to be, I should think, in Indian temperatures.’ ‘I guess you got it that time, dear lady,’ said Mrs. Mickie to Mrs. Gammidge, as Madeline slipped toward the door. ‘Meant to be cross, did she? How silly of her! If she gives her little heart away like that often, people will begin to make remarks.’ ‘The worst of that girl is,’ Mrs. Mickie continued, ‘that you never can depend upon her. For days together she’ll be just as giddy and jolly as anybody and then suddenly she’ll give you a nasty superior bit of ice down the back of your neck like that. I’ve got her coming to tea tomorrow afternoon,’ Mrs. Mickie added, with sudden gloom, ‘and little Lord Billy and all that set are coming. They’ll throw buns at each other--I know they will. What, in heaven’s name, made me ask her?’ ‘Oh, she’ll have recovered by then. You must make allowance for the shock we gave her, poor dear. Consider how you would feel if Lady Worsley suddenly appeared upon the scene, and demanded devotion from Sir Frank.’ ‘She wouldn’t get it,’ Mrs. Mickie dimpled candidly. ‘Frank always loses his heart and his conscience at the same time. But you don’t suppose there’s anything serious in this affair? Pure pretty platonics, I should call it.’