“It was last year,” said Violet.

“Yesterday,” Shere Ali persisted.  “I dreamt last night that I had gone back to Chiltistan; but it was only a dream.”

“It was the truth,” and the quiet assurance of her voice dispelled Shere Ali’s own effort at pretence.  He leaned forward suddenly, clasping his hands upon his knees in an attitude familiar to her as characteristic of the man.  There was a tenseness which gave to him even in repose a look of activity.

“Well, it’s the truth, then,” he said, and his voice took on an accent of bitterness.  “And here’s more truth.  I never thought to see you here to-night.”

“Did you think that I should be afraid?” asked Violet Oliver in a low, steady voice.

“Afraid!” Shere Ali turned towards her in surprise and met her gaze.  “No.”

“Why, then, should I break my word?  Have I done it so often?”

Shere Ali did not answer her directly.

“You promised to write to me,” he said, and Violet Oliver replied at once: 

“Yes.  And I did write.”

“You wrote twice,” he cried bitterly.  “Oh, yes, you kept your word.  There’s a post every day, winter and summer, into Chiltistan.  Sometimes an avalanche or a snowstorm delays it; but on most days it comes.  If you could only have guessed how eagerly I looked forward to your letters, you would have written, I think, more often.  There’s a path over a high ridge by which the courier must come.  I could see it from the casement of the tower.  I used to watch it through a pair of field-glasses, that I might catch the first glimpse of the man as he rose against the sky.  Each day I thought ‘Perhaps there’s a letter in your handwriting.’  And you wrote twice, and in neither letter was there a hint that you were coming out to India.”

He was speaking in a low, passionate voice.  In spite of herself, Violet Oliver was moved.  The picture of him watching from his window in the tower for the black speck against the skyline was clear before her mind, and troubled her.  Her voice grew gentle.

“I did not write more often on purpose,” she said.

“It was on purpose, too, that you left out all mention of your visit to India?”

Violet nodded her head.

“Yes,” she said.

“You did not want to see me again.”

Violet turned her face towards him, and leaned forward a little.

“I don’t say that,” she said softly.  “But I thought it would be better that we two should not meet again, if meeting could be avoided.  I saw that you cared—­I may say that, mayn’t I?” and for a second she laid her hand gently upon his sleeve.  “I saw that you cared too much.  It seemed to me best that it should end altogether.”

Shere Ali lifted his head, and turned quickly towards her.

“Why should it end at all?” he cried.  His eyes kindled and sought hers.  “Violet, why should it end at all?”

Violet Oliver drew back.  She cast a glance to the courtyard.  Only a few paces away the stream of people passed up and down.