and helped to keep the ball rolling; and even the host in his turn woke up and actually attempted to tell a humorous story.  It certainly lacked point; but he seemed satisfied that it was funny, so his guests smiled as in duty bound.  But Wargrave noted Mrs. Norton’s look of astonishment at this new departure on the part of her husband and thought that there was something very pathetic in her surprise.  When the meal was ended she laughingly declined to leave the men over their wine and stayed to smoke a cigarette with them.

When they all quitted the dining-room the Resident asked his guests to excuse him for returning to his study, pleading urgent and important work; and his wife led the subalterns up to the drawing-room and out on to the verandah that ran alongside its French windows.  Here easy chairs and a table with a big lamp had been placed for them.  As soon as they were seated one of the stately chuprassis brought coffee, while another proffered cigars and cigarettes and held a light from a silver spirit-lamp.  Then both the solemn servitors departed noiselessly on bare feet.

After some conversation Mrs. Norton said to the adjutant: 

“Do you remember, Mr. Raymond, that you have promised to take me out shooting one day?”

“I haven’t forgotten,” he replied; “but I was not able to arrange it, as the Maharajah had pigsticking meets fixed up for all our free days.  But I don’t think we’ll have another for some time; for I hear that His Highness is laid up from the effects of his fall.  So we might go out some day soon.”

“Good.  When shall we go?” asked Wargrave.  “Let’s fix it up now.”

“What about next Thursday?” said his friend, turning to Mrs. Norton.

“Yes; that will suit me.  Where shall we go?”

“There are a lot of partridge and a few hares, I’m told, near the tank at Marwa, where there is a good deal of cultivation,” answered Raymond.  Then turning to his friend he continued: 

“You are not very keen on small game shooting, Frank; so you can bring your rifle and try for chinkara.  I saw a buck and a couple of doe there not very long ago.  A little venison would be very acceptable in Mess.”

“The tank is about eight miles away, isn’t it?” said the hostess.  “I’ll write to the Maharajah and ask him to lend us camels to take us out.  My cook will put up a good cold lunch for us.”

She rose from her chair and continued: 

“Now, Mr. Wargrave, come and sing something.  I’ve been trying over those new songs of yours to-day.”

She led the way into the drawing-room and Raymond was left alone on the verandah to smoke and listen for the rest of the evening, while the others forgot him as they played and sang.

Suddenly he sat up in his chair and with a queer little pang of jealousy in his heart stared through the open window at the couple at the piano.  He watched his friend’s face turned eagerly towards his hostess.  Wargrave was gazing intently at her as in a voice full of feeling and pathos, a voice with a plaintive little tone in it that thrilled him strangely, she sang that haunting melody “The Love Song of Har Dyal.”  Wistfully, sadly, she uttered the sorrowful words that Kipling puts into the mouth of the lovelorn Pathan maiden: