“In your thoughts?” she asked quickly.  “That you will be gentle in word and in deed—­yes, of that I am sure.  But will you think gently of me—­always?  That is a different thing.”

“Of course,” he answered with a laugh.

But Violet Oliver was in no mood lightly to be put off.

“Promise me that!” she cried in a low and most passionate voice.  Her lips trembled as she pleaded; her dark eyes besought him, shining starrily.  “Oh, promise that you will think of me gently—­that if ever you are inclined to be hard and to judge me harshly, you will remember these two nights in the dark garden at Peshawur.”

“I shall not forget them,” said Linforth, and there was no longer any levity in his tones.  He spoke gravely, and more than gravely.  There was a note of anxiety, as though he were troubled.

“I promise,” he said.

“Thank you,” said Violet simply; “for I know that you will keep the promise.”

“Yes, but you speak”—­and the note of trouble was still more audible in Linforth’s voice—­“you speak as if you and I were going to part to-morrow morning for the rest of our lives.”

“No,” Violet cried quickly and rather sharply.  Then she moved on a step or two.

“I interrupted you,” she said.  “You were saying that when I spoke about my window, although you were troubled on my account—­”

“I felt at the same time some relief,” Linforth continued.

“Relief?” she asked.

“Yes; for on my return from Ajmere this morning I noticed a change in you.”  He felt at once Violet’s hand shake upon his arm as she started; but she did not interrupt him by a word.

“I noticed it at once when we met for the first time since we had talked together in the garden, for the first time since your hands had lain in mine and your lips touched mine.  And afterwards it was still there.”

“What change?” Violet asked.  But she asked the question in a stifled voice and with her face averted from him.

“There was a constraint, an embarrassment,” he said.  “How can I explain it?  I felt it rather than noticed it by visible signs.  It seemed to me that you avoided being alone with me.  I had a dread that you regretted the evening in the garden, that you were sorry we had agreed to live our lives together.”

Violet did not protest.  She did not turn to him with any denial in her eyes.  She walked on by his side with her face still turned away from his, and for a little while she walked in silence.  Then, as if compelled, she suddenly stopped and turned.  She spoke, too, as if compelled, with a kind of desperation in her voice.

“Yes, you were right,” she cried.  “Oh, Dick, you were right.  There was constraint, there was embarrassment.  I will tell you the reason—­now.”

“I know it,” said Dick with a smile.

Violet stared at him for a moment.  She perceived his contentment.  He was now quite unharassed by fear.  There was no disappointment, no anger against her.  She shook her head and said slowly: