“Not exactly enemies, but I do hate the way he gobbles his food and bullies the servants; and then he says such rude things about England—perhaps it’s only done on purpose to make me angry? He declares we are a wretched, rotten, played-out old country, going down the hill as hard as we can fly. He is narrow-minded, too; so arrogant—the Germans can do no wrong, the English can never do right. I am telling dreadful tales, am I not? All the same, he has an English wife, and is simply devoted to Aunt Flora; nothing is too good for her. It is really funny to see this rough overbearing man so gentle and thoughtful. But then, she is a dear!” “Oh, is she?” “You shall see for yourself. You must come to tea on Sunday. I am sure I may invite you; Aunt Flora is so kind and sympathetic, and has a look of mother.” “I’ll come all right, if you think she’ll not be _durwaza bund_.” “No, she is ever so much better, but the last few years has been more or less an invalid.” “What is her particular illness? Is it fever?” “Fever and neuralgia. Some days she will lie in a darkened room and see no one but her ayah; she won’t even admit me, though occasionally I do slip in; she has had a bad attack lately, but is now convalescent. Oh, I see Mrs. Muller moving at last; now we shall be going.” “I’m afraid you’ve found this show a hit dull.” “Not at all—it has been a most interesting sight; I don’t know when I have enjoyed myself so much.” “So have I; it has been a——” Whatever Shafto was about to add was interrupted by Mrs. Muller, who pounced on his companion with a laughing apology, and handed her over to the charge of Herr Bernhard. Two days later Mrs. Gregory and Mrs. Milward called at “Heidelberg,” and on the veranda encountered Sophy, who was hurrying out to keep an appointment to practise duets with Frau Muller. “I’m so dreadfully sorry,” she said, when the first greetings were over, “but I must go; I’ll get back as soon as ever I can. Aunt Flora is at home.” But when Sophy returned the visitors had already departed, leaving their hostess a good deal disturbed. Indeed, Mrs. Krauss’s languid spirits had been violently shaken. Mrs. Milward had remarked on Sophy’s changed appearance, and her tone had been hostile. “It is very plain that Burma does not suit her,” she said. “I could not believe that any girl would have altered in so short a time; I shall write to her mother at once.” “Oh, dear Mrs. Milward, what do you mean?” “I should think anyone could _see_ what I mean,” rejoined the lady, who was very angry and had heard the tale of Sophy’s heavy cares. “The girl looks ill. I have known Sophy for years—known her since she was a small child—and I can assure you that she has never been accustomed to a strenuous indoor employment, to getting no exercise or relaxation—or ever meeting people of her own age.”