But Iris protested against this arrangement.  She felt lonely.  The long hours of silence had been distasteful to her.  She wanted to talk.

“I agree,” said Jenks, “provided you do not pin me down to something I told you a month ago.”

“I promise.  You can tell me as much or as little as you think fit.  The subject for discussion is your court-martial.”

He could not see the tender light in her eyes, but the quiet sympathy of her voice restrained the protest prompt on his lips.  Yet he blurted out, after a slight pause—­

“That is a very unsavory subject.”

“Is it?  I do not think so.  I am a friend, Mr. Jenks, not an old one, I admit, but during the past six weeks we have bridged an ordinary acquaintanceship of as many years.  Can you not trust me?”

Trust her?  He laughed softly.  Then, choosing his words with great deliberation, he answered—­“Yes, I can trust you.  I intended to tell you the story some day.  Why not tonight?”

Unseen in the darkness Iris’s hand sought and clasped the gold locket suspended from her neck.  She already knew some portion of the story he would tell.  The remainder was of minor importance.

“It is odd,” he continued, “that you should have alluded to six years a moment ago.  It is exactly six years, almost to a day, since the trouble began.”

“With Lord Ventnor?” The name slipped out involuntarily.

“Yes.  I was then a Staff Corps subaltern, and my proficiency in native languages attracted the attention of a friend in Simla, who advised me to apply for an appointment on the political side of the Government of India.  I did so.  He supported the application, and I was assured of the next vacancy in a native state, provided that I got married.”

He drawled out the concluding words with exasperating slowness.  Iris, astounded by the stipulation, dropped her locket and leaned forward into the red light of the log fire.  The sailor’s quick eye caught the glitter of the ornament.

“By the way,” he interrupted, “what is that thing shining on your breast?”

She instantly clasped the trinket again.  “It is my sole remaining adornment,” she said; “a present from my father on my tenth birthday.  Pray go on!”

“I was not a marrying man, Miss Deane, and the requisite qualification nearly staggered me.  But I looked around the station, and came to the conclusion that the Commissioner’s niece would make a suitable wife.  I regarded her ‘points,’ so to speak, and they filled the bill.  She was smart, good-looking, lively, understood the art of entertaining, was first-rate in sports and had excellent teeth.  Indeed, if a man selected a wife as he does a horse, she—­”

“Don’t be horrid.  Was she really pretty?”

“I believe so.  People said she was.”

“But what did you think?”

“At the time my opinion was biased.  I have seen her since, and she wears badly.  She is married now, and after thirty grew very fat.”