"I thought something must have happened to you," he said stiffly. "Why, what could have happened? I was quite safe with Guy." "Mr. Greaves," he corrected. She laughed. "What nonsense! I've always called him Guy. Why should I begin 'mister-ing' him now? Come along in; I'm so hungry." She chattered on happily. "We went on the river and rowed for miles. It was simply lovely. We saw crocodiles, and a funeral pyre on the bank, with the relations all standing round and the smoke curling up. And then we landed and got into a grove full of tombstones. Guy said he believed it was an old Mohammedan burying-ground. So funny, with Hindu corpses being burnt just below it. What a mixed-up place India seems to be!" "What made you so late?" he asked, following her into the drawing-room, that was bright and pretty with lamplight and wedding presents and chintz-covered chairs, though it felt a little close and airless. "Poof!" said Trixie. "How hot it is in the house! Do let us have dinner out of doors." "We should be smothered with insects," he objected. "We can't dine outside without lamps when there's no moon." "Directly there's a moon," said Trixie, "I'm going to ride out with Guy to that wood and sit on a tombstone and look at the river. And then we will tango--tango in and out among the trees." She danced a few steps, singing, down the middle of the room. She looked so gay, so full of life and health, so pretty in her white silk blouse cut open at the neck, and her short drill skirt, and a Panama hat slouched over her forehead, that Coventry's anger melted to a sad regret. He had never felt quite sure of her, never certain that she cared for him; indeed, deep in his heart he knew that Trixie was yet ignorant of love; and he was tortured with the half-acknowledged dread that out of some thoughtless flirtation with another man there might arise a primal passion that would wreck his life again and hers. To-night the memory of Rafella, and the dreadful moment of their parting, was so uncannily insistent that he felt as though he stood on the brink of another crisis--one that would be infinitely worse for him. He loved Trixie as he had never loved his former wife--a mature, strong love that held far less of self, combining almost a paternal feeling with the deep devotion of a husband. And now it was poisoned with a helpless, jealous sense of danger that he could not combat. It came between him and his desire to behave wisely, warily, with tact towards her. His innate horror of gossip and scandal, his latent distrust of her friendship with young Greaves, added to the lingering influence of his alarm that some accident had befallen her to keep her out so late, held him harping on the question that she had not answered. "You haven't told me why you were so late," he said.