The shutters were closed and the lamps lighted as if it were night, and the dust pattered like hail on the verandah whenever the howling of the wind would allow any other sound to be heard. Fitz Anstruther was sitting near the fireplace, looking through an old magazine, and Mabel, rejecting his suggestion of a game of chess, seated herself at the writing-table, saying that she must finish her letters for the mail. She found it difficult to write, however, for although she would not look up, she could not help being conscious that her companion’s eyes were much oftener fixed on her than on the printed page before him. Accustomed though she was to such homage from men, this time it made her nervous, and at last she could bear it no longer. “Wouldn’t you like something to do?” she demanded suddenly, turning round and catching him in the act of looking at her, but he was equal to the occasion. “Something to do? Something for you, do you mean? May I really write your letters for you? I’m sure the Major has given me plenty of practice in that sort of thing, and your friends would be so surprised to find you had set up a private secretary.” “Thanks, but I don’t seem to be in the mood for letter-writing, and certainly not for dictating.” “Then may I hold a skein of silk for you to wind? That’s the sort of thing they set a mere man down to in books.” “I don’t use silk of that sort. Is there nothing you would like to do?” “Yes, awfully. I should like to talk to you.” “I think I shall go and read to the Commissioner,” severely. “It would only be wasting sweetness on the desert air. He’s perfectly happy at this moment, with Beardmore plotting treason in a confidential report, and about six clerks writing away for him as hard as they can write, and he wouldn’t appreciate an interruption.” “I suppose you are judging Mr Burgrave by yourself when you say he will be happier if I keep away?” “I? Oh no; I was judging him by himself. The Kumpsioner Sahib doesn’t think ladies and affairs of state go well together, you know.” “Indeed?” Mabel was bitterly conscious that she bore a grudge against the Commissioner for this very reason, but she had no intention of admitting the fact. “Why, do you mean that he vouchsafes to talk shop to you alone, out of all the world of women? What an important person you are, Miss North! Think of having the run of the Commissioner’s state secrets! But of course one can see why he does it. How unfairly people are dealt with in this world! Why have I no official secrets to confide? Supposing I spy round and amass some, may I expound them to you for three or four hours a day?” “What nonsense!” said Mabel, with some warmth. “Mr Burgrave is only teaching me to appreciate Browning.” “And you fly to state secrets for relief in the intervals! Miss North, won’t you teach me to appreciate Browning? I’ll wire to Bombay at once for the whole twenty-nine volumes, if you will.” “I really have no time to waste----”