Emily gathered that Jane Cupp was afraid of the woman, and kept a cautious eye upon her.

“She is a very faithful servant, Jane,” she answered.  “She is devoted to Mrs. Osborn.”

“I am sure she is, my lady.  I’ve read in books about the faithfulness of black people.  They say they’re more faithful than white ones.”

“Not more faithful than some white ones,” said Lady Walderhurst with her good smile.  “Ameerah is not more faithful than you, I’m very sure.”

“Oh, my lady!” ejaculated Jane, turning red with pleasure.  “I do hope not.  I shouldn’t like to think she could be.”

In fact the tropic suggestion of the Ayah’s personality had warmed the imagination of the servants’ hall, and there had been much talk of many things, of the Osborns as well as of their servants, and thrilling stories of East Indian life had been related by Walderhurst’s man, who was a travelled person.  Captain Osborn had good sport on these days, and sport was the thing he best loved.  He was of the breed of man who can fish, hunt, or shoot all day, eat robust meals and sleep heavily all night; who can do this every day of a year, and in so doing reach his highest point of desire in existence.  He knew no other aspirations in life than such as the fortunes of a man like Walderhurst could put him in possession of.  Nature herself had built him after the model of the primeval type of English country land-owner.  India with her blasting and stifling hot seasons and her steaming rains gave him nothing that he desired, and filled him with revolt against Fate every hour of his life.  His sanguine body loathed and grew restive under heat.  At The Kennel Farm, when he sprang out of his bed in the fresh sweetness of the morning and plunged into his tub, he drew every breath with a physical rapture.  The air which swept in through the diamond-paned, ivy-hung casements was a joy.

“Good Lord!” he would cry out to Hester through her half-opened door, “what mornings! how a man lives and feels the blood rushing through his veins!  Rain or shine, it’s all the same to me.  I can’t stay indoors.  Just to tramp through wet or dry heather, or under dripping or shining trees, is enough.  How can one believe one has ever lain sweating with one’s tongue lolling out, and listened to the whining creak of the punkah through nights too deadly hot to sleep in!  It’s like remembering hell while one lives in Paradise.”

“We shan’t live in Paradise long,” Hester said once with some bitterness.  “Hell is waiting for us.”

“Damn it! don’t remind a man.  There are times when I don’t believe it.”  He almost snarled the answer.  It was true that his habit was to enhance the pleasure of his days by thrusting into the background all recollections of the reality of any other existence than that of the hour.  As he tramped through fern and heather he would remember nothing but that there was a chance—­there was chance, good Lord!  After a man not over strong reached fifty-four or five, there were more chances than there had been earlier.