“—­and,” he said slowly, “I wonder what sort of fairyland it is actually to live and breathe in?”

While he spoke, his eyes were seeking an answer to his question, and seeking it in one particular quarter.  A few tables away, and behind Linforth’s friend and a little to his right, sat Violet Oliver.  She was with a party of six or eight people, of whom Linforth took no note.  He had eyes only for her.  Bitterness had long since ceased to colour his thoughts of Violet Oliver.  And though he had not forgotten, there was no longer any living pain in his memories.  So much had intervened since he had walked with her in the rose-garden at Peshawur—­so many new experiences, so much compulsion of hard endeavour.  When his recollections went back to the rose-garden at Peshawur, as at rare times they would, he was only conscious at the worst that his life was rather dull when tested by the high aspirations of his youth.  There was less music in it than he had thought to hear.  Instead of swinging in a soldier’s march to the sound of drums and bugles down the road, it walked sedately.  To use his own phrase, everything was—­just not.  There was no more in it than that.  And indeed at the first it was almost an effort for him to realise that between him and this woman whom he now actually saw, after three years, there had once existed a bond of passion.  But, as he continued to look, the memories took substance, and he began to wonder whether in her fairyland it was “just not,” too.  She had what she had wanted—­that was clear.  A collar of pearls, fastened with a diamond bow, encircled her throat.  A great diamond flashed upon her bosom.  Was she satisfied?  Did no memory of the short week during which she had longed to tread the road of fire and stones, the road of high endeavour, trouble her content?

Linforth was curious.  She was not paying much heed to the talk about the table.  She took no part in it, but sat with her head a little raised, her eyes dreamily fixed upon nothing in particular.  But Linforth remembered with a smile that there was no inference to be drawn from that not unusual attitude of hers.  It did not follow that she was bored or filled with discontent.  She might simply be oblivious.  A remark made about her by some forgotten person who had asked a question and received no answer came back to Linforth and called a smile to his face.  “You might imagine that Violet Oliver is thinking of the angels.  She is probably considering whether she should run upstairs and powder her nose.”

Linforth began to look for other signs; and it seemed to him that the world had gone well with her.  She had a kind of settled look, almost a sleekness, as though anxiety never came near to her pillow.  She had married, surely, and married well.  The jewels she wore were evidence, and Linforth began to speculate which of the party was her husband.  They were young people who were gathered at the table.  In her liking for young people about her she had not