'Not on the Koran, sister,' he said evasively, 'nor on my head. Those be God's work. Lateef had naught to do with the making of either. He hath no hold on them, or their vagaries, and I swear by naught that is not sure.' 'Then swear by what thou likest,' she put in swiftly. 'Lo! it is not much I ask--not even that thou wilt bring it back, but that thou wilt try--for me who cannot try, for helpless Khôjee shut in these four walls. Promise, Lateef, that if thou _hast_ the chance--nay! I will not let thee go till thou dost promise.' There was a pause, and then he laughed--his own contemptuous, musical laugh. 'If the chance comes! Yea! I will promise that. On my kites I promise, since they be my creatures to fly or fail as I choose. Let be, good Khôjee. If I am to do aught, thou must let me go.' She rose reluctantly. 'On thy kites, Lateef? That is a light oath.' She spoke in vague wonder. 'Heavy for me, sister,' he replied gaily, 'since they be all Lateef has for children--all of his own fashioning to leave behind him when he dies!' So, with a nod towards the dead child, he passed out of the courtyard where the shadows were lengthening for sunset. But there would be no _naubat_ to sound that evening, so Khôjee crouched down between the two beds where the mother and the child lay both silent, both unheeding, and covering her face with her veil, thought how best to tell the lie when Noormahal should rouse to ask the question. CHAPTER XIII A VALSE À DEUX TEMPS 'What am I? Why, a mutiny lady, of course. Don't you see my crinoline; I suppose I am the first to arrive, but there are a lot of us coming in the dress. We are going to have a sixteen mutiny Lancers; perhaps two, and all sorts of fun. Rather a jolly idea, isn't it?' The speaker was Mrs. Chris Davenant as she stood buttoning her white gloves in the anteroom of the club which was all decorated and illuminated for the Service ball. She was daintiness itself in a widespread pink tarlatane frilled to the very waist. A wreath of full-blown pink roses headed the fall of white lace that lay low down on the white sloping shoulders, which seemed as if, at the least movement, they would slip up from their nest of flowers to meet the fair shining hair that slipped downwards in a loose coil from the wreath of pink roses round her head. The steward who had been told off to record the costumes, and see that no one evaded the rule of fancy dress without permission, raised his eyebrows slightly as he bowed. 'And admirably carried out in your case,' he replied politely, ere turning to Chris, who stood beside the pink tarlatane in the garments of civilisation which had been rescued from Sri Hunumân. He was looking, for him, moody, ill-humoured. 'And you, I suppose, have permission,' began the steward, when Mrs. Chris with a hasty look-half of appeal--at her husband, interrupted gaily--