as instance, he suddenly asked himself:  “By Jove! and does anybody except the pater love Elizabeth?” He was doubtful if anybody did.  All the servants held her in esteem, for she was just, and not niggardly; but hers was certainly not a disposition to cause spontaneous affection.  Perhaps the word admirable epitomised Elizabeth all round.  But he felt that he needed a sort of Christian Science sustaining, as it were, in this sensuous drifting—­something to make his slipping appear more obnoxious.

As he rode up to the verandah of the Residency he saw Elizabeth cutting flowers, probably to decorate the breakfast table.  That was like Elizabeth; instead of leaving it to the mahli (gardener), with the butler to festoon the table, she was doing it herself.  It was an occupation akin to water-colour painting or lace work, just the sort of thing to find Elizabeth at—­typical.

Barlow was possessed of a hopeful fancy that perhaps she had not ridden expecting that he would call on the Resident; but as always with the Resident’s daughter he could deduct nothing from her manner.  She nodded pleasantly, looking up, a gloved hand full of roses; and, as he slipped from the saddle, relinquishing the horse to the syce, she fell in beside him as far as the verandah, where they stood talking desultory stuff; the morning sun on the pink and white oleanders, the curious snake-like mottling of the croton leaves, and the song of a dhyal that, high in a tamarind, was bubbling liquid notes of joy.

“The Indian robin red-breast makes one homesick,” Elizabeth said.

“Home—­“, but the girl put a quick hand on his arm checking him; the action was absolutely like Elizabeth, imperious.  A small, long-tailed, brown-breasted bird had darted across the compound to a mango tree from where he warbled a love song as sweet and rich toned as the evensong of a nightingale.

The dhyal, as if feeling defeat in the sweeter carol of his rival, hushed.

“The shama,” Elizabeth said; “when I hear him I close my eyes and picture the downs and oaked hills of England, and fancy I’m listening to the nightingale or the lark.”

Barlow turned involuntarily to look into the girl’s face; it was an inquisitive look, a wondering look; gentle sentiment coming from Elizabeth was rather a reversal of form.

Also there was immediately a reversal of bird form, a shatterment of sentiment, a rasping maddening note from somewhere in the dome of a pipal tree.  A Koel bird, as if in derision of the feathered songsters, sent forth his shrill plaintive, “Koe-e-el, Koe-e-el, Ko-e-e-el!”

“Ah-a-a!” Barlow exclaimed in disgust—­“that’s India; the fever-bird, the koel, harbinger of the hot-spell, of burning sun and stifling dust, and throbbing head.”

He cursed the koel, for the gentle mood had slipped from Elizabeth.  He had hoped that she would have spoken of yesterday, give him a shamed solace for the hurt she had given him.  Of course Hodson would have told her all about the Gulab.  But while that, the service, was sufficient for the Resident, Elizabeth would consider the fact that Barlow knew Bootea well enough to have this service rendered; it would touch her caste—­also her exacting nature.