Clare and her husband could not understand each other. His nature, which with all his apparent gloom was a passionate one, had no outlet save his great love for her, and his greater for religion. For him the dull routine of his daily life was enough; but Clare longed, like the girl she was, for amusement, excitement, display, society, and yet in gay British India she was condemned by this good and amiable, but fervid ascetic, to lead a life which, to one of her temperament, was one of unspeakable martyrdom. She might, perhaps, under better auspices, have forgotten her first love in time, and learned to like, as much as she respected, her husband, had he only made some allowance for her weakness and foibles, and not judged her so hardly and set before her a standard of excellence which she was unable to attain. But the crisis of her life was coming fast to Clare Thorne. Her husband began to dislike the frequent visits and the somewhat brotherly familiarity of Wilmot with his wife; there was something in it undefinable. It was the reverse of flirtation, for his demeanour was grave, respectful and sympathetic, and in these elements the danger seemed to lie. Clare's bearing and tone were irreproachable; yet a suspicion, at which he blushed, was roused in the honest heart of Cecil Thorne. "If it should be!" he muttered, with his firm white teeth clenched. Then he would watch and dissemble; but even that seemed a stain on his own rectitude. Thus one day he said, abruptly: "Clare, that officer--Mr. Wilmot, has been here again. I see his music strewed all over the piano." "Well, Cecil?" "I forbid his visits--that is all!" "Forbid his visits!" repeated Clare, startled, crushed, and blushing crimson; "then you must tell him so yourself." "Why, madam?" "He is an old friend of my family, and--and----" "You, and he too, never said a word of this before!" "I thought you knew it," faltered Clare, who found that she had made a sad mistake. "Old friend--he is about five-and-twenty only. What brought him here to-day?" "To give us these tickets for the garrison ball." "Ball--you know I never go to balls." "But may I?" "No--you may _not_!" Poor Clare repined bitterly and wept profusely, but not for the first time in her life, and her husband, who knew that all Mirzapatam was on tip-toe about the forbidden ball, eyed her with a lowering expression. But he knew that he must exert his authority, or scandals might ensue, and he felt that Wilmot must cross his threshold no more. Indeed, the ball-tickets were returned to him, and when next he visited the abode of Mr. Thorne, that gentleman, who never did things by halves, and who deemed he had a duty to perform to religion, to himself, and society, gave the young officer a pretty distinct hint that his visits could be dispensed with, and Fred retired, his heart swollen with rage, mortification, and sorrow.