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“And you don’t like me in consequence,” he drawled, meeting the look with eyes so intent that, half-startled, she lowered her own.

She turned away from him with an impatient gesture. He had never managed to embarrass her before.

“I should like you better if you weren’t so officious,” she said.

“But you have no one else to look after you,” objected Lord Ronald.

“Well, in any case, it isn’t your business,” she threw back, almost inclined to laugh at his audacity.

“It would be if you married me,” he pointed out, as patiently as if he were dealing with a fractious child.

“If I—-“

She wheeled abruptly, amazed out of her disdain. It was the most prosaic proposal she had ever had.

“If you married me,” he repeated, keeping his eyes upon her. “You admit that I am harmless, so you would have nothing to fear from me. And as a watch-dog, I think you would find me useful–and quite easy to manage,” he added, with his serene smile.

Beryl was staring at him in wide astonishment. Was the man mad to approach her thus?

“No,” he said. “I am quite sane; eccentric perhaps, but–as you are kind enough to observe–quite harmless. I never proposed to any woman before in my life, or so much as wanted to, so that must be my excuse for doing it badly. Really, you know, Mrs. Denvers, you might do worse than marry me. You might indeed.”

But at that her indignation broke bounds. If he were not mad, it made him the more intolerable. Did he fancy himself so desirable, then, that he had merely to fling her the handkerchief–to find her at his feet? His impertinence transcended belief. But she would pay him back in his own coin. He should never again imagine himself irresistible.

“Really, Lord Ronald,” she said, “if I actually needed a protector–which I do not–you are the very last person to whom I should turn. And as to a husband—-“

She paused a moment, searching for words sufficiently barbed to penetrate even his complacency.

“Yes?” he said gently, as if desirous to help her out.

“As to a husband,” she said, “if I ever marry again, it will be a man I can respect–a man who can hold his own in the world; a man who is really a man, and not–not a nonentity!”

Impetuously she flung the words. For all his placidity, he seemed to possess the power to infuriate her. She longed intensely to move him to anger. She felt insulted by his composure, hating him because he remained so courteously attentive.

He made no attempt to parry her thrust, nor did he seem to be disconcerted thereby. He merely listened imperturbably till she ceased to speak. Then:

“Ah, well,” he said good-humouredly, “you mustn’t take me too seriously. It was only a suggestion, you know.” He picked up his hat with the words. “A pity you can’t see your way to fall in with it, but you know best. Good-bye for the present.”

Reluctantly, in response to his evident expectation, she gave him her hand.

“I wish you to understand, Lord Ronald,” she said stiffly as she did so, “that my reply is final.”

He lifted his eyebrows for a second, and she fancied–could it have been mere fancy?–that the grey eyes shone with a certain steely determination that was assuredly foreign to his whole nature as he made deliberate reply:

“That is quite understood, Mrs. Denvers. It was awfully kind of you to be so explicit. As you know, I am not good at taking hints.”

And with that he was gone, unruffled to the last, perfectly courteous, almost dignified, while she stood and watched his exit with a vague and disquieting suspicion that he had somehow managed to get the best of it after all.

II

When Beryl Denvers first came to Kundaghat to be near her friend Mrs. Ellis, the Commissioner’s wife, society in general openly opined that she had come to the populous Hill station to seek a husband. She was young, she was handsome, and she was free. It seemed the only reasonable conclusion to draw. But since that date society had had ample occasion to change its mind. Beryl Denvers plainly valued her freedom above every other consideration, and those who wooed her wooed in vain. She discouraged the attentions of all mankind with a rigour that never varied, till society began to think that her brief matrimonial experience had turned her into a man-hater. And yet this was hard to believe, for, though quick-tempered, she was not bitter. She was quite willing to be friendly with all men, up to a certain point. But beyond this subtle boundary few dared to venture and none remained. There was a wonderful fascination about her, a magnetism that few could resist; but notwithstanding this she held herself aloof, never wholly forgetting her caution even with those who considered themselves her intimates.