“Was there no fight?”

He paused an appreciable time before replying.  Then he evidently made up his mind to perform some disagreeable task.  The watching girl could see the change in his face, the sharp transition from eager interest to angry resentment.

“Yes,” he went on at last, “there was a fight.  It was a rather stiff affair, because a troop of British cavalry which should have supported me had turned back, owing to the want of water already mentioned.  But that did not save the officer in charge of the 24th Lancers from being severely reprimanded.”

“The 24th Lancers!” cried Iris.  “Lord Ventnor’s regiment!”

“Lord Ventnor was the officer in question.”

Her face crimonsed.  “Then you know him?” she said.

“I do.”

“Is he your enemy?”

“Yes.”

“And that is why you were so agitated that last day on the Sirdar, when poor Lady Tozer asked me if I were engaged to him?”

“Yes.”

“How could it affect you?  You did not even know my name then?”

Poor Iris!  She did not stop to ask herself why she framed her question in such manner, but the sailor was now too profoundly moved to heed the slip.  She could not tell how he was fighting with himself, fiercely beating down the inner barriers of self-love, sternly determined, once and for all, to reveal himself in such light to this beautiful and bewitching woman that in future she would learn to regard him only as an outcast whose company she must perforce tolerate until relief came.

“It affected me because the sudden mention of his name recalled my own disgrace.  I quitted the army six months ago, Miss Deane, under very painful circumstances.  A general court-martial found me guilty of conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman.  I was not even given a chance to resign.  I was cashiered.”

He pretended to speak with cool truculence.  He thought to compel her into shrinking contempt.  Yet his face blanched somewhat, and though he steadily kept the pipe between his teeth, and smoked with studied unconcern, his lips twitched a little.

And he dared not look at her, for the girl’s wondering eyes were fixed upon him, and the blush had disappeared as quickly as it came.

“I remember something of this,” she said slowly, never once averting her gaze.  “There was some gossip concerning it when I first came to Hong Kong.  You are Captain Robert Anstruther?”

“I am.”

“And you publicly thrashed Lord Ventnor as the result of a quarrel about a woman?”

“Your recollection is quite accurate.”

“Who was to blame?”

“The lady said that I was.”

“Was it true?”

Robert Anstruther, late captain of Bengal Cavalry, rose to his feet.  He preferred to take his punishment standing.

“The court-martial agreed with her, Miss Deane, and I am a prejudiced witness,” he replied.