Wargrave laughed.

“I know.  I became very unpopular when I was Band President and made our band play Wagner all one night during Mess.  I gave up trying to elevate their musical taste when the Colonel told me to order the bandmaster to ’stop that awful rubbish and play something good, like the selection from the last London revue.’”

“Are you a musician yourself?” she asked.

“I play the violin.”

“Oh, how ripping!  You must come often and practise with me.  I’ve an excellent piano; but I rarely touch it now.  My husband takes no interest in music—­or indeed, in anything else I like.  But, then, I am not thrilled by his one absorbing passion in life—­insects.  So we’re quits, I suppose.”

Their horses were walking silently over the soft sand; and Wargrave heard her give a little sigh.  Was it possible, he wondered, that the husband of this charming woman did not appreciate her and her attractions as he ought?

She went on with a change of manner: 

“When are you coming to call on me?  I am a Duty Call, you know.  All officers are supposed to leave cards on the Palace and the Residency.”

“The call on you will be a pleasure, I assure you, not a mere duty, Mrs. Norton,” said the subaltern with a touch of earnestness.  “May I come to-morrow?”

“Yes, please do.  Come early for tea and bring your violin.  It will be delightful to have some music again.  I have not opened my piano for months; but I’ll begin to practise to-night.  I have one or two pieces with violin obligato.”

So, chatting and at every step finding something fresh to like in each other, they rode along down sandy lanes hemmed in by prickly aloe hedges, by deep wells and creaking water-wheels where patient bullocks toiled in the sun to draw up the gushing water to irrigate the green fields so reposeful to the eye after the glaring desert.  They passed by thatched mud huts outside which naked brown babies sprawled in the dust and deer-eyed women turned the hand-querns that ground the flour for their household’s evening meal.  Stiff and sore though Wargrave was after these many hours of his first day in the saddle for so long, he thoroughly enjoyed his ride back with so attractive a companion.

When they reached the Residency, a fine, airy building of white stone standing in large, well-kept grounds, he felt quite reluctant to part with her.  But, declining her invitation to enter, he renewed his promise to call on the following day and rode on to his bungalow.

When he was alone he realised for the first time the effects of fatigue, thirst and the broiling heat of the afternoon sun.  But Mrs. Norton was more in his thoughts than the exciting events of the day as he trotted painfully on towards his bungalow.

The house was closely shut and shuttered against the outside heat, and Raymond was asleep, enjoying a welcome siesta after the early start and hard exercise.  Wargrave entered his own bare and comfortless bedroom, and with the help of his “boy”—­as Indian body-servants are termed—­proceeded to undress.  Then, attired in a big towel and slippers, he passed into the small, stone-paved apartment dignified with the title of bathroom which opened off his bedroom.