“I was hoping very much that I should meet you somewhere in India,” said Dick.  “Lately I had grown afraid that you would be going home before the chance came.”

“You left it to chance,” said Violet.

The reluctance had gone from her voice; but in its place there was audible a note of resentment.  She had spoken abruptly and a little sharply, as though a grievance present in her mind had caught her unawares and forced her to give it utterance.

“No,” replied Linforth, turning to her earnestly.  “That’s not fair.  I did not know where you were.  I asked all who might be likely to know.  No one could tell me.  I could not get away from my station.  So that I had to leave it to chance.”

They walked down the drive, and then turned off past the croquet lawn towards a garden of roses and jasmine and chrysanthemums.

“And chance, after all, has been my friend,” he said with a smile.

Violet Oliver stopped suddenly.  Linforth turned to her.  They were walking along a narrow path between high bushes of rhododendrons.  It was very dark, so that Linforth could only see dimly her face and eyes framed in the white scarf which she had draped over her hair.  But even so he could see that she was very grave.

“I was wondering whether I should tell you,” she said quietly.  “It was not chance which brought me here—­which brought us together again.”

Dick came to her side.

“No?” he asked, looking down into her face.  He spoke very gently, and with a graver voice than he had used before.

“No,” she answered.  Her eyes were raised to his frankly and simply.  “I heard that you were to be here.  I came on that account.  I wanted to see you again.”

As she finished she walked forward again, and again Linforth walked at her side.  Dick, though his settled aim had given to him a manner and an aspect beyond his age, was for the same reason younger than his years in other ways.  Very early in his youth he had come by a great and definite ambition, he had been inspired by it, he had welcomed and clung to it with the simplicity and whole-heartedness which are of the essence of youth.  It was always new to him, however long he pondered over it; his joy in it was always fresh.  He had never doubted either the true gold of the thing he desired, or his capacity ultimately to attain it.  But he had ordered his life towards its attainment with the method of a far older man, examining each opportunity which came his way with always the one question in his mind—­“Does it help?”—­and leaving or using that opportunity according to the answer.  Youth, however, was the truth of him.  The inspiration, the freshness, the simplicity of outlook—­these were the dominating elements in his character, and they were altogether compact of youth.  He looked upon the world with expectant eyes and an unfaltering faith.  Nor did he go about to detect intrigues in men or deceits in women.  Violet’s words therefore moved him not merely to tenderness, but to self-reproach.