“And you will stay in Chiltistan until you come back to us?” she asked.  “You won’t go down to Calcutta at Christmas, for instance?  Calcutta is the place to which people go at Christmas, isn’t it?  I think you are right.  You have a career in your own country, amongst your own people.”

She spoke urgently.  And Shere Ali, thinking that thus she spoke in concern for his future, drew some pride from her encouragement.  He also drew some shame; for she might have been speaking, too, in pity for his distress.

“Mrs. Oliver,” he said, with hesitation; and she stopped and turned to him.  “Perhaps I said more than I meant to say a few minutes ago.  I have not forgotten really that there is much for me to do in my own country; I have not forgotten that I can thank all of you here who have shown me so much kindness by more than mere words.  For I can help in Chiltistan—­I can really help.”

Then came a smile upon Violet Oliver’s face, and her eyes shone.

“That is how I would have you speak,” she cried.  “I am glad.  Oh, I am glad!” and her voice rang with the fulness of her pleasure.  She had been greatly distressed by the unhappiness of her friend, and in that distress compunction had played its part.  There was no hardness in Violet Oliver’s character.  To give pain flattered no vanity in her.  She understood that Shere Ali would suffer because of her, and she longed that he should find his compensation in the opportunities of rulership.

“Let us say good-bye here,” he said.  “We may not be alone again before I go.”

She gave him her hand, and he held it for a little while, and then reluctantly let it go.

“That must last me until the summer of next year,” he said with a smile.

“Until the summer,” said Violet Oliver; and she passed out from the doorway into the ball-room.  But as she entered the room and came once more amongst the lights and the noise, and the familiar groups of her friends, she uttered a little sigh of relief.  The summer of next year was a long way off; and meanwhile here was an episode in her life ended as she wished it to end; for in these last minutes it had begun to disquiet her.

Shere Ali remained behind in the conservatory.  His eyes wandered about it.  He was impressing upon his memory every detail of the place, the colours of the flowers and their very perfumes.  He looked through the doorway into the ball-room whence the music swelled.  The note of regret was louder than ever in his ears, and dominated the melody.  To-morrow the lights, the delicate frocks, the laughing voices and bright eyes would be gone.  The violins spoke to him of that morrow of blank emptiness softly and languorously like one making a luxury of grief.  In a week’s time he would be setting his face towards Chiltistan; and, in spite of the brave words he had used to Violet Oliver, once more the question forced itself into his mind.

“Do I belong here?” he asked.  “Or do I belong to Chiltistan?”