“When was this taken?”

“A few months ago.  She sent it to me in October.  She is beautiful, don’t you think?”

“Yes.”

But it was not the beauty of the girl who had ridden along the South Downs with him eight years ago.  There was more of character in the face now, less, much less, of youth and none of the old gaiety.  The open frankness had gone.  The big dark eyes which looked out straight at Thresk as he stood before them had, even in that likeness, something of aloofness and reserve.  And underneath, in a contrast which seemed to him startling, there was her name signed in the firm running hand in which she had written the few notes which passed between them during that month in Sussex.  Thresk looked back again at the photograph and then resumed his seat.

“Tell me about her, Mrs. Carruthers,” he said.  “You hear from her often?”

“Oh no!  Stella doesn’t write many letters, and I don’t know her very well.”

“But you have her photograph,” said Thresk, “and signed by her.”

“Oh yes.  She stayed with me last Christmas, and I simply made her get her portrait taken.  Just think!  She hadn’t been taken for years.  Can you understand it?  She declared she was bored with it.  Isn’t that curious?  However, I persuaded her and she gave me one.  But I had to force her to write on it.”

“Then she was in Bombay last winter?” said Thresk slowly.

“Yes.”  And then Mrs. Carruthers had an idea.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “if you are really interested in Stella I’ll put Mrs. Repton next to you to-night.”

“Thank you very much,” said Thresk.  “But who is Mrs. Repton?”

Mrs. Carruthers sat forward in her chair.

“Well, she’s Stella’s great friend—­very likely her only real friend in India.  Stella’s so reserved.  I simply adore her, but she quite prettily and politely keeps me always at arm’s length.  If she has ever opened out to anybody it’s to Jane Repton.  You see Charlie Repton was Collector at Agra before he came into the Bombay Presidency, and so they went up to Mussoorie for the hot weather.  The Ballantynes happened actually to have the very next bungalow—­now wasn’t that strange?—­so naturally they became acquainted.  I mean the Ballantynes and the Reptons did...”

“But one moment, Mrs. Carruthers,” said Thresk, breaking in upon the torrent of words.  “Am I right in guessing that Mrs. Ballantyne lives in India?”

“But of course!” cried Mrs. Carruthers.

“She is actually in India now?”

“To be sure she is!”

Thresk was quite taken aback by the news.

“I had no idea of it,” he said slowly, and Mrs. Carruthers replied sweetly: 

“But lots of people live in India, Mr. Thresk.  Didn’t you know that?  We are not the uttermost ends of the earth.”

Thresk set to work to make his peace.  He had not heard of Mrs. Ballantyne for so long.  It seemed strange to him to find himself suddenly near to her now—­that is if he was near.  He just avoided that other exasperating trick of treating India as if it was a provincial town and all its inhabitants neighbours.  But he only just avoided it.  Mrs. Carruthers, however, was easily appeased.