They came at length upon a second clearing, smaller than the first, and here in the centre of a moonlit space there stood the ruined walls of a little native temple or mausoleum.

A flight of worn, marble steps led to the dark arch of the doorway.  Monck stretched a hand to his companion, and they ascended side by side.  A bubbling murmur of water came from within.  It seemed to fill the place with gurgling, gnomelike laughter.  They entered and Monck stood still.

For a space of many seconds he neither moved nor spoke.  It was almost as if he were waiting for some signal.  They looked forth into the moonlight they had left through the cave-like opening.  The air around them was chill and dank.  Somewhere in the darkness behind them a frog croaked, and tiny feet scuttled and scrambled for a few moments and then were still.

Again Stella shivered, drawing her cloak more closely round her.  “Why did you bring me to this eerie place?” she said, speaking under her breath involuntarily.

He stirred as if her words aroused him from a reverie.  “Are you afraid?” he said.

“I should be—–­ by myself,” she made answer.  “I don’t think I like India at too close quarters.  She is so mysterious and so horribly ruthless.”

He passed over the last two sentences as though they had not been uttered.  “But you are not afraid with me?” he said.

She quivered at something in his question.  “I am not sure,” she said.  “I sometimes think that you are rather ruthless too.”

“Do you know me well enough to say that?” he said.

She tried to answer him lightly.  “I ought to by this time.  I have had ample opportunity.”

“Yes,” he said rather bitterly.  “But you are prejudiced.  You cling to a preconceived idea.  If you love me—­it is in spite of yourself.”

Something in his voice hurt her like the cry of a wounded thing.  She made a quick, impulsive movement towards him.  “Oh, but that is not so!” she said.  “You don’t understand.  Please don’t think anything so—­so hard of me!”

“Are you sure it is not so?” he said.  “Stella!  Stella!  Are you sure?”

The words pierced her afresh.  She suddenly felt that she could bear no more.  “Oh, please!” she said.  “Oh, please!” and laid a quivering hand upon his arm.  “You are making it very difficult for me.  Don’t you realize how much better it would be for your own sake not to press me any further?”

“No!” he said; just the one word, spoken doggedly, almost harshly.  His hands were clenched and rigid at his sides.

Almost instinctively she began to plead with him as one who pleads for freedom.  “Ah, but listen a moment!  You have your life to live.  Your career means very much to you.  Marriage means hindrance to a man like you.  Marriage means loitering by the way.  And there is no time to loiter.  You have taken up a big thing, and you must carry it through.  You must put every ounce of yourself into it.  You must work like a galley slave.  If you don’t you will be—­a failure.”