She had not expected any visitors.  Visitors seldom came to the bungalow, for the simple reason that she was seldom at home to receive them, and the Magician never considered himself at liberty for social obligations.  So it was with some surprise that she heard footsteps that were not her brother’s upon the baked earth of the compound; and when her ayah came to her with the news that Hyde Sahib was without, she was even conscious of a sensation of dismay.

For Hyde Sahib was a man she detested, without knowing why.  He was a civil servant, an engineer, and he had been in Ghantala longer than any one else of the European population.  Very reluctantly she gave the order to admit him, hoping that Ronnie would soon return and take him off her hands.  For Ronnie professed to like the man.

He greeted her with a cool self-assurance that admitted not the smallest doubt of his welcome.

“I was passing, and thought I would drop in,” he told her, retaining her hand till she abruptly removed it.  “I guessed you would be all forlorn.  The Magician is away, I hear?”

Hope steadily returned the gaze of his pale eyes, as she replied, with dignity: 

“Yes; my uncle is from home.  But I am not at all lonely.  I am expecting my brother every minute.”

He smiled at her in a way that made her stiffen instinctively.  She had never been so completely alone with him before.

“Ah, well,” he said, “perhaps you will allow me to amuse you till he returns.  I rather want to see him.”

He took her permission for granted, and sat down in a bamboo chair on the veranda, leaning back, and staring up at her with easy insolence.

“I can scarcely believe that you are not lonely here,” he remarked.  “A figure of speech, I suppose?”

Hope felt the colour rising in her cheeks under his direct and unpleasant scrutiny.

“I have never felt lonely till to-day,” she returned, with spirit.

He laughed incredulously.  “No?” he said.

“No,” said Hope with emphasis.  “I often think that there are worse things in the world than solitude.”

Something in her tone—­its instinctive enmity, its absolute honesty—­attracted his attention.  He sat up and regarded her very closely.

She was still on her feet—­a slender, upright figure in white.  She was grasping the back of a chair rather tightly, but she did not shrink from his look, though there was that within her which revolted fiercely as she met it.  But he prolonged the silent combat with brutal intention, till at last, in spite of herself, her eyes sank, and she made a slight, unconscious gesture of protest.  Then, deliberately and insultingly, he laughed.

“Come now, Miss Carteret,” he said, “I’m sure you can’t mean to be unfriendly with me.  I believe this place gets on your nerves.  You’re not looking well, you know.”

“No?” she responded, with frozen dignity.