'Why, Miss Tweedie? Because you insisted yesterday that women preferred the truth, even when it was rude. And it was true. I suppose, as your father wants you, I have no hope of this dance; and I'm engaged for all the others.' Rose Tweedie's eyebrows went up. 'How lucky for you--I mean, of course, how unlucky for me.' Then she added in more conciliatory tones, 'I'm not dancing to-night; these shoes won't do.' She thrust out her shapely foot with the careless freedom of a child. 'I can see no fault,' he replied artificially, putting up his eye-glass, 'they appear to me quite perfect.' 'Your knowledge of women doesn't apparently extend to their understandings,' she retorted quickly, her voice, as usual when she was irritated, showing a trace of Scotch accent. 'Oh father! if you want me to come home, I'm ready.' Colonel Tweedie hesitated. A single glance at him suggested that the late Mrs. Tweedie must have been a women of strong individuality, or else that Rose had reverted to some ancestral type. 'Not, not exactly, my dear. I only--wanted to--er--speak to you.' 'Good-bye, Miss Tweedie,' said Lewis Gordon, taking the hint. 'Oh! by the way, sir, if your daughter will remember I'm a personal assistant, and excuse shop for an instant--Fitzgerald came back to-day from Hodinuggur.' Rose Tweedie's face lit up. 'Did he say how Mr. Keene liked it?' she asked eagerly. 'I'm afraid not; but he can scarcely be expected to like the desert after--Rajpore. I shouldn't--under the circumstances. That is all, sir; except that he reports everything satisfactory, so far.' The Colonel gave a little cough; it was his way of starting the official machine inside the social one. 'I hope--for Mr. Fitzgerald's sake it--it--er--may remain so. The past scandals have been a disgrace--er--to the Department. 'Not to him, though,' broke in Rose hotly. 'I think he is quite one of the nicest people I ever met.' 'And what is more, the ablest man we have in our service,' added Lewis Gordon heartily. The girl's face softened at his tone. If he would only speak like that always, instead of simpering and scraping! 'Well, father, what is it?' she asked when he had gone. The other readers had drifted away, and the medical lady looked as if even the last trump would not rouse her from the post-mortem she was perusing, so to all intents and purposes they were alone. Colonel Tweedie gave another little cough; it was an unusual occurrence in private matters, and she repeated her question with quickened interest. 'I want you, my dear, to go and speak to--to Mrs. Boynton. I've--I've asked her to come into camp with us this time.' 'Why?' Pages full of words would fail to give a better idea of Rose Tweedie's mental outlook than this simple interrogation. Briefly, she must have a reason, good, bad, or indifferent, for everything. Her father, being her father and knowing this, had several ready.