Then her mind went back to Rosenthal; and in the solitude of the ladies’ compartment she laughed aloud at the thought of the shock that his self-sufficiency must have received when he learned of her sudden and mysterious disappearance from Poona.  For she had left him no word.  It would do him good; he needed a lesson, for he was too sure of her.  She had never troubled to analyse her feelings for him and did not know whether she liked or hated him most.  She saw his faults clearly, his blatant conceit, his irritating belief in the supremacy of money, his arrogance, his bad manners.  She knew that men deemed him a bounder.  But his very boorishness, his savage outbreaks against conventionality, attracted her.  Under the thin veneer of civilisation, he was simply an animal; she knew it and it appealed to her baser nature, the sensual strain in her.  That he was beast, and wild beast at that, did not affright her; she felt that she could always dominate him when she would.  Once or twice the beast had come out into the open; but she had driven it back with a whip—­and she believed that she could always do it.  The wealth, the life of luxury that he offered, appealed to her strongly; but she kept her head and remembered that he was dependent on his father’s bounty, and she had no intention of compromising herself irretrievably under such circumstances.  If he had the disposal of the old man’s immense riches then the temptation might be over-powering; but until he had she would wait.  And ever the memory of Wargrave obtruded itself, rather to her annoyance; but angry as she was with him she could not pretend to herself that she was indifferent to him.

Up in Darjeeling on the very day that she left Poona Frank sat with Miss Benson under a massive, orchid-clad tree in the lovely Botanical Gardens, gazing moodily down into the depths of the valley far below them.  Turning suddenly he found his companion looking at him.  Something in her eyes moved him strongly and he forgot his caution.

“Muriel, you know how it is with, me,” he said impetuously.  “I oughtn’t to say anything; but—­well, all the men here run after you, and I can’t bear it.  I’m a fool, I know, but I can’t help being jealous.  I’m always afraid that some one of them will take you from me.  The other woman seems to be forgetting me completely.  She hasn’t written to me for weeks, months.  Surely she’s tiring of me.  I don’t suppose she ever really cared for me—­just was bored in that dull station.  If—­if she sets me free would you—­could you ever like me well enough to marry me?”

The girl looked away over the valley and a little smile crept into her eyes.  Then she turned to him and laid her hand on his.

“Dear boy, if you were free I would,” she answered.

They were all alone, no one to see them; and his arms went out to her.  But she drew back.

“Not yet, dear.  You’re another woman’s property still,” she said.