There was so much of pathetic resignation in the timbre of the girl’s voice, for it was half sigh, that Barlow shivered, as if the chilling mist of the valley had crept up to the foothills.  Why had he not treated her as an alien, kept all interest in abeyance?  His self recrimination was becoming a disease, an affliction.

He rose, muttering, “Damn!  I’m like the young wasters that swarm up to London from Oxford and get splashed with the girls from the theatres—­that’s what I’m like.”

As he strode over to where his horse was tethered, munching his ration of grain, Bootea followed him with her eyes, wondering why he had broken into English; perhaps he was chanting an evening prayer.

When Barlow came back he fell to wishing that they were at Mandhatta so that he would start on the rest of his journey in the morning; he dreaded the long evening with the girl.  He could have sat there with Elizabeth, although their marriage hovered on the horizon, and talked of trivial things:  of sport, of shooting; or damned the Executive sitting beneath punkahs in offices with windows all closed, far away in Calcutta.  Or could have traversed, mentally, leagues of sea and rehabilitated past scenes in London.  It would be like talking to a brother officer.  But with the Gulab, and the hush and perfume of the forest-clad hills, and the gentle glamour of moonlight, his senses would smother placid intellectuality; he would be like a toper with a bottle at his elbow mocking weak resolve.

Then the girl said something:  a shy halting request that set his blood galloping:  “Sahib, it is not far to Mandhatta—­four kos, or perhaps it is five; would it be unpermitted to suggest that we go there, for the moon is beautiful and the road is good.”

“All right, girl!” and remembering that he had spoken in English, he added, “It will be expedient, for you will there find shelter.”

“Yes, Sahib, Guru Swami will be there, and I am known of him; and there are places where one may rest.”

“I’ll tell the driver to hitch up,” Barlow declared, rising.

But she laid a detaining hand upon his arm:  “Sahib, the sweetest thing in all Bootea’s life was the time she rode on the horse with him.  Then, too, the moon, that is the soul of Purusha, smiled upon her.  Would it be permitted to Bootea just one more happiness, for to-morrow—­to-morrow—­”

The girl turned away, and seemed busy adjusting her gold-embroidered jacket.

“So you shall, Gulab,” Barlow declared.  And he, too, thought of the sweetness of that ride where she lay like a confiding child in his arms; and also for him, too, was to-morrow—­to-morrow; and for him, too, just one more foolish, useless happiness—­just a sensuous burying of his face in flowers that on the morrow would have shrivelled.

“I’ll send the tonga on ahead,” he declared, “and we’ll just have that jolly old farewell ride together, girl—­I’d love it.”