Strange if, with all his love of fighting, he could not fight (and conquer) himself.  Yes—­his last great fight should be with himself....  He would call, to-day, at the bungalow to which Mrs. Dearman, prior to starting for Home, had removed as soon as the carefully-guarded Cantonment area was pronounced absolutely safe as a place of residence for the refugees who had been besieged in the old Military Prison.

She would be sufficiently “straight” in her bungalow, by this time, to permit of a formal mid-day call being a reasonable and normal affair....

“Good-morning, Preserver of Gungapur,” said Mrs. Dearman brightly; “have the Victoria Cross and the Distinguished Service Order materialized yet—­or don’t they give them to Volunteers?  What a shame if they don’t!”

“I want something far more valuable and desirable than those, Mrs. Dearman,” said Colonel Ross-Ellison as he took the extended hand of his hostess, who was a picture of coolness and health.

“Oh?—­and—­what is that?” she asked, seating herself on a big settee with her back to the light.

“You,” was the direct and uncompromising reply of the man who had been leading a remarkably direct and uncompromising life for several years.

Mrs. Dearman trembled, flushed and paled.

“What do you mean?” she managed to say, with a fine affectation of coolness, unconcern, and indifference.

“I mean what I say,” was the answer.  “I want you.  I cannot live without you.  I want to take care of you.  I want to devote my life to making you happy.  I want to make you forget this terrible experience and tragedy.  You are lonely and I worship you.  I want you to marry me—­when you can—­later—­and let me serve you for the rest of my life.  Make me the happiest and proudest man in the world and I will strive to be the noblest.”

He was very English then—­in his fine passion.  He took her hand and it was not withdrawn.  He bent to look in her eyes, she smiled, and in a second was in his embrace, strained to his breast, her lips crushed by his.

For a minute he could not speak.

“I cannot believe it,” he whispered at length.  “Is this a dream?”

“You are a very concrete dream—­dear,” said Mrs. Dearman, re-arranging crushed and disarranged flowers at her breast, blushing and laughing shyly.

The man was filled with awe, reverence and a deep longing for worthiness.

The woman felt happy in the sense of safety, of power, of pride in the love of so fine a being.

“And how long have you loved me?” she murmured.

“Loved you, Cleopatra?  Dearest—­I have loved you from the moment my eyes first fell on you....  Poor salt-encrusted, weary, bloodshot eyes they were too,” he added, smiling, reminiscent.

“What do you mean?” asked Mrs. Dearman, puzzled.

“Ah—­I have a secret to tell you—­a confession that will open those beautiful eyes wide with surprise.  I first saw you when you were Cleopatra Brighte.”