“Thanks very much, Mrs. Dermot.  I’ll be delighted to come, if you’ll forgive me should I be a little late.  I’ve got to take the signallers’ parade this afternoon.  I’ll tell Burke when I get to the Mess.  I’m going straight there now.”

“Thank you.  That will save me writing. Au revoir.”

Half-way up the road to the Mess Wargrave looked back and saw an elephant heave into sight around a bend below the Dermots’ house and plod heavily up to their gate.  On the charjama—­the passenger-carrying contrivance of wooden seats on the pad with footboards hanging by short ropes—­sat a lady and two European men holding white umbrellas up to keep off the vertical rays of the noonday sun.  When the animal sank to its knees in front of the bungalow Wargrave saw the girl—­it could only be Miss Benson—­spring lightly to the ground before either of her companions could dismount and offer to help her.  Her big sunhat hid her face, and at that distance Wargrave could only see that she was small and slight, as she walked up the garden path.

When the signallers’ afternoon practice was over the subaltern passed across the parade ground to the Political Officer’s house.  When he entered the pretty drawing-room, bright with the gay colours of chintz curtains and cushions, he found the strangers present, one man talking to Mrs. Dermot at her tea-table, the other chatting with the Colonel, while Burke was installed beside a girl seated in a low cane chair and dressed in a smart, hand-embroidered Tussore silk dress, suede shoes and silk stockings.  Little Brian stood beside her with one arm affectionately round her neck, while Eileen was perched in her lap.  But when Frank appeared the mite wriggled down to the floor and rushed to him.

The subaltern was presented to Miss Benson, her father and Carter, the Sub-Divisional Officer or Civil Service official of the district.  When he sat down Eileen clambered on to his knee and seriously interfered with his peaceful enjoyment of his tea; but while he talked to her he was watching Miss Benson over the small golden head.  She was astonishingly pretty, with silky black hair curving in natural waves, dark-bordered Irish grey eyes fringed with long, thick lashes, a rose-tinted complexion, a pouting, red-lipped mouth and a small nose with the most fascinating, provoking suspicion of a tip-tilt.  She was as small and daintily-fashioned as her hostess; and Wargrave thought it marvellous that their forgotten outpost on the face of the mountains should hold two such pretty women at the same time.  His comrade Burke was evidently acutely conscious of Muriel Benson’s attractions, and, his pleasantly ugly face aglow with a happy smile, he was flirting as openly and outrageously with her as she with him.

“Sure, it’s a cure for sore eyes ye are, Miss Flower Face,” he said.  “That’s the name I christened her with the first moment I saw her, Wargrave.  Doesn’t it fit her?” Then turning to the girl again, he continued, “Aren’t you ashamed av yourself for laving me to pine for a sight av ye all these weary months?”