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“He has gone,” she told him. “I–ordered him to go.”

“Better late than never,” said Lord Ronald thoughtfully.

He leaned upon the edge of the fountain, still mopping the blood from his face, till, suddenly feeling his beard, he stripped it off with a gesture of impatience.

“Afraid I must have given you a nasty shock,” he said. “I didn’t expect to be mauled like this.”

“Please–please don’t apologise,” she begged him, with a sound that was meant for a laugh, but was in effect more like a sob.

He turned towards her in his slow way.

“I’m not apologising. Only–you know–I’ve taken something of a liberty, though, on my honour, it was well meant. If you can overlook that—-“

“I shall never overlook it,” she said tremulously.

He put the chuddah back from his head and regarded her gravely. His face was swollen and discoloured, but this fact did not in the smallest degree lessen the quaint self-assurance of his demeanour.

“Yes, but you mustn’t cry about it,” he said gently. “And you mustn’t blame yourself either. I knew the fellow, remember; you didn’t.”

“I didn’t know you, either,” she said, sitting down on the edge of the fountain. “I–I’ve been a perfect fool!”

Silence followed this statement. She did not know quite whether she expected Lord Ronald to agree with her or to protest against the severity of her self-arraignment, but she found his silence peculiarly hard to bear.

She had almost begun to resent it, when suddenly, very softly, he spoke:

“It’s never too late to mend, is it?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “I almost think it is–at my age.”

He dipped her handkerchief again in the fountain, and dabbed his face afresh. Then:

“Don’t you think you might try?” he suggested, in his speculative drawl.

She shook her head rather drearily.

“I suppose I shall have to resign myself, and get a companion. I shall hate it, and so will the companion, but—-“

“Think so?” said Lord Ronald. He laid his hand quietly on her knee. “Mrs. Denvers,” he said, “I am afraid you thought me awfully impertinent when I suggested your marrying me the other day. It wasn’t very ingenious of me, I admit. But what can you expect from a nonentity? Not brains, surely! I am not going to repeat the blunder. I know very well that I am no bigger than a peppercorn in your estimation, and we will leave it at that. But, you know, you are too young, you really are too young, to live alone. Now listen a moment. You trust me. You said so. You’ll stick to that?”

“Of course,” she said, wondering greatly what was coming.

“Then will you,” he proceeded very quietly, “have me for a watch-dog until you marry again? I could make you an excellent Sikh servant, and I could go with you practically everywhere. Don’t begin to laugh at the suggestion until you have thoroughly considered it. It could be done in such a way that no one would suspect. It matters nothing to any one how I pass my time, and I may as well do something useful for once. I know at first sight it seems impossible, but it is nothing of the sort in reality. It isn’t the first time I have faked as a native. I am Indian born, and I have spent the greater part of my life knocking about the Empire. The snake-taming business I picked up from an old bearer of mine–a very old man he’s now and in the trade himself. I got him to lend me his most docile cobra. The thing was harmless, of course. But all this is beside the point. The point is, will you put up with me as a retainer, no more, until you find some one more worthy of the high honour of guarding you? I shall never, believe me, take advantage of your kindness. And on the day you marry again I shall resign my post.”

She had listened to the amazing suggestion in unbroken silence, and even when he paused she did not at once speak. Her head was bent, almost as though she did not wish him to see her face–he, the peppercorn, the nonentity, whose opinion mattered so little!