Honour was opening and closing recklessly the cameo clasp that fastened her black velvet bracelet. "Did you come here to plead Major Charteris's cause?" she asked in a very small voice. "What if I—if I told you your—your pleading had convinced me?"

"I should say you had chosen the better man," said Gerrard steadily.

A hand touched his for a moment, and was snatched away immediately. "I have chosen the better man," murmured Honour. "But it is not Major Charteris," and the hand allowed itself to be captured.

"I was certain of it!" cried Gerrard triumphantly. Honour withdrew her hand hastily. "Certain? certain of what?" she demanded. Gerrard was horrified.

"Miss Cinnamond—Honour—my dearest one—what have I done? I am an unlucky fellow! Have I offended you?"

"You said you were certain," explained Honour, with impatient deliberateness. "What were you certain of?"

"Why, that you could not have refused Charteris—splendid fellow that he is, and with all his honours and successes—unless there was a little sneaking kindness in your heart for some one else, and I hoped it might be for a poor wretched failure who has nothing to lay at your feet beyond his love and fidelity."

Honour surrendered her hand again. "You are so absurd!" she said, with a catch in her voice. "Of course, if pity is all you want——"

"Pity is not to be despised. It made a good beginning——"

"It did not!" cried Honour sharply. "How blind you are! And I thought you understood! When you came to the Residency in the rains, were you to be pitied then?"

"I thought so. You would hardly look at me."

"Oh, stupid! how could I?"

"You had begun to care then? But, dearest, how could I guess? You talked about nothing but Charteris."

"It was the only way I could get you to talk about yourself. You had to tell me little bits about your own doings when you were describing all he had done."

"If I had only known, it would have saved a lot of misery, both to poor old Bob and me," mused Gerrard ruefully. "But how could I possibly tell! When you asked so much about Charteris, of course I thought you cared for him."

"As if I could ever have talked about him to you if I had cared for him!" said Honour in disdain. Gerrard mused upon this revelation for a moment.

"Well, I don't see how I could have known," he said at last.

"Why, I told you!" cried Honour—"when you went away."

"I thought you must have meant that—just for a moment. But then you ran away, and would not even say good-bye to me."

"How could I, when I had just told you—shouted it out before everybody? But I hid behind Mrs Antony and watched you go. I—I kissed my hand to you," shamefacedly.

"And I was bustled off, and never knew! Dear one, you have only yourself and my stupidity to thank if you marry a failure. What might I not have done if I had known you cared!"

"Perhaps you might not have known it then as well as you do now," whispered Honour shyly. "It—it must be you, you know, not your success, or——"

"So it is! But you won't insist on my remaining a failure always, for I'm hanged if I do. With you to inspire—to help——"

Could it be the silent, reserved Honour whose transfigured face was raised to his. "Oh, you will let me, you think I can?" she breathed. "I wanted, so dreadfully, to help people when I first came out, but no one seemed to want it—or else they just asked me to marry them——"

"But so have I. At least, that was my intention."

"Oh, you! But you are different. And I may try to help?"

A deprecating ayah, who had been making signs in vain from the verandah, advanced in desperation. "Lady Memsahib done say wish done see Missy Sahib," she murmured, with downcast eyes.

* * * * * *

"Well, is it all serene?" inquired Charteris, as Gerrard returned to their quarters that night.

"All right—thanks to you, Bob."

"Oh, shut up! Seventh heaven?"

"Seventy times seventh."

"I believe you, my boy! Papa and mamma agreeable?"

"They were most kind. Sir Arthur would have preferred you, Bob—I can't help seeing that—but he was quite decent. I even saw poor little Mrs Cowper for a moment. She cried, and said how glad she was."

"Uncommon affecting! And she, herself?"

"She's—she's—I can't express what she is, even to you, Bob. Hang it! I believe I could talk of her all night, and get no nearer. She is an angel from heaven."

"Question is, has she made up her mind at last—no more shilly-shallying? Hope I don't intrude in asking it."

"Made up her mind—— Are you trying to throw doubts——? Oh, I see. But it's a thousand years since then, Bob. You yourself could have no doubt, if you saw her."

"All right; I'm quite satisfied. If a doleful beggar like yourself can feel free from doubt——"

"I could no more doubt her than the sun at noon. Bob, I'll tell you. She will go with me to Central India when Sir Edmund goes."

Charteris sat up in his chair. "Nonsense!" he said sharply. "What folly is this? You are talking of leaving Granthistan?"

"I had made up my mind to it before you came to me this afternoon, and she agrees with me that it is the right thing."

"My dear fellow, you don't know. I was talking to the G.-G.'s military secretary to-night, and he let slip that there would be a local majority for you at the next distribution of honours. If you leave Granthistan, of course that falls through."

"Then I must wait till it comes in the natural course of things."

"You don't seem to realise that Sir Arthur's influence won't help you outside Granthistan, and will be very little use in any line but the military. What's taken you?"

"It's simply that I mean to stick to Sir Edmund. My views as to the treatment of the natives were learnt from him, and I can work better with him than with our Mr James, much as I respect him."

"James Antony is the coming man, and the man for me. But if you will choose the losing side—why, I suppose you must. It's like her, too."

"It is, indeed—since she chose me and not you. Bob, I'm still lost in wonder over that."

Charteris moved impatiently. "Shows her wisdom. I don't mind telling you, Hal—it may make you more comfortable to hear it—that I had misgivings. Not about my own happiness—Heaven knows that I could ask nothing better—but whether I could make her happy. I can't spout Tennyson to her, or appreciate her pretty little German tales about knights and water-nymphs—the New Sporting Magazine and Lays of Ancient Rome are more my number. Evidently I am cut out for pacifying Darwan rather than for domestic joys. And after all, two years ago I would have given my ears to be where I am now. You have Honour, and I have honours, you see"—with a fairly creditable laugh—"and so everything is for the best in the best of all possible worlds."



[1] Big dinner.

[2] Bravo.

THE END