“Oh, but you will!” cried Violet.  “When you are out there you will.  There’s the road, too, the road which you and Mr. Linforth—­”

She did not complete the sentence.  With a low cry Shere All broke in upon her words.  He leaned forward, with his hands covering his face.

“Yes,” he whispered, “there’s the road—­there’s the road.”  A passion of self-reproach shook him.  Not for nothing had Linforth been his friend.  “I feel a traitor,” he cried.  “For ten years we have talked of that road, planned it, and made it in thought, poring over the maps.  Yes, for even at the beginning, in our first term at Eton, we began.  Over the passes to the foot of the Hindu Kush!  Only a year ago I was eager, really, honestly eager,” and he paused for a moment, wondering at that picture of himself which his words evoked, wondering whether it was indeed he—­he who sat in the conservatory—­who had cherished those bright dreams of a great life in Chiltistan.  “Yes, it is true.  I was honestly eager to go back.”

“Less than a year ago,” said Violet Oliver quickly.  “Less than a week ago.  When did I see you last?  On Sunday, wasn’t it?”

“But was I honest then?” exclaimed Shere Ali.  “I don’t know.  I thought I was—­right up to to-day, right up to this morning when the letter came.  And then—­” He made a despairing gesture, as of a man crumbling dust between his fingers.

“I will tell you,” he said, turning towards her.  “I believe that the last time I was really honest was in August of last year.  Linforth and I talked of the Road through a long day in the hut upon the Meije.  I was keen then—­honestly keen.  But the next evening we came down to La Grave, and—­I met you.”

“No,” Violet Oliver protested.  “That’s not the reason.”

“I think it is,” said Shere Ali quietly; and Violet was silent.

In spite of her pity, which was genuine enough, her thoughts went out towards Shere Ali’s friend.  With what words and in what spirit would he have received Shere Ali’s summons to Chiltistan?  She asked herself the question, knowing well the answer.  There would have been no lamentations—­a little regret, perhaps, perhaps indeed a longing to take her with him.  But there would have been not a thought of abandoning the work.  She recognised that truth with a sudden spasm of anger, but yet admiration strove with the anger and mastered it.

“If what you say is true,” she said to Shere Ali gently, “I am very sorry.  But I hope it is not true.  You have been ten years here; you have made many friends.  Just for the moment the thought of leaving them behind troubles you.  But that will pass.”

“Will it?” he asked quietly.  Then a smile came upon his face.  “There’s one thing of which I am glad,” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“You are wearing my pearls to-night.”

Violet Oliver smiled, and with a tender caressing movement her fingers touched and felt the rope of pearls about her neck.  Both the smile and the movement revealed Violet Oliver.  She had a love of beautiful things, but, above all, of jewels.  It was a passion with her deeper than any she had ever known.  Beautiful stones, and pearls more than any other stones, made an appeal to her which she could not resist.