“I knew he was a horrid old man!” said Olga.

Nick laughed again.  “He entertains a very lively hatred for all of us that nothing will ever eradicate.  But he belongs to the old regime, so what could one expect?  I have even heard it whispered that he served with the rebel sepoys in the Mutiny.  However, his day is done.  Akbar is no longer under his influence.  He will strike out a line for himself now.  I’ve won him round to the British raj, and if he isn’t assassinated by Kobad’s people, he’ll do.  It’s a pity they can’t have martial law for a bit,” he added to Sir Reginald.  “They would settle in half the time.  Hang a few, shoot a few, and—­”

“Nick!” said Olga, in astonishment.

He stretched out his one hand and laid it on her knee.  “And flog a few,” he finished, smiling at her.  “There would be some chance for the State then.  Yes, I’m a blood-thirsty creature.  Didn’t you know?  One can’t wear gloves for this game.”

Olga held his hand in silence.  She had learned more of Nick in the past five months than she had ever known before.  Undoubtedly he had become more of the man to her and less of the hero.  She did not love him any the less for it, but her attitude towards him was different.

She knew he had divined the change, and suspected him of being amused thereby—­a suspicion which he strengthened by saying with a laugh, “You didn’t know I could be such a brute, did you?”

She smiled back a little wistfully.  “I begin to think you could be almost anything, Nick,” she said.

He shot her a swift glance, and it seemed to her for a moment that he was looking for a double meaning to her words.  But apparently he found none, for he smiled again with the comfortable remark, “Ah, well, it’s a useful faculty if exercised with discretion.  What are you going to wear to-night?  Let’s hear all about it!”

That was the new Nick all over, displaying the male denseness with which she had never been wont to credit him.  She gave him details of her costume without much ardour, he listening with careless comments.

“You don’t sound very keen,” he said suddenly.  “I believe you’re getting blase.”

“These things get a little monotonous, don’t they?” said Sir Reginald.

His smile was sympathetic.  She felt inexplicably that he understood her better than did Nick.  He had fathomed the deadly weariness that Nick had overlooked.

“Go on!” commanded Nick.  “Who are you going to dance with?”

She hesitated a little, and he turned his hand and pinched her fingers somewhat mercilessly.  “Noel of course—­he’s too handsome to refuse, isn’t he?  And the rest of the boys will expect their share, doubtless.  But remember—­the supper-dances are mine.”

She started a little.  “Oh, Nick dear, I’m afraid I’ve promised those already.”

“To whom?” said Nick swiftly.

“Major Hunt-Goring.”  Her voice was low; she did not look at him as she uttered the name.