Last year we met again—­on the same terms as before.  The same weary appeals, and the same curt answers from my lips.  At least I would make her see how wholly wrong and hopeless were her attempts at resuming the old relationship.  As the season wore on, we fell apart—­that is to say, she found it difficult to meet me, for I had other and more absorbing interests to attend to.  When I think it over quietly in my sick-room, the season of 1884 seems a confused nightmare wherein light and shade were fantastically intermingled—­my courtship of little Kitty Mannering; my hopes, doubts and fears; our long rides together; my trembling avowal of attachment; her reply; and now and again a vision of a white face flitting by in the ’rickshaw with the black and white liveries I once watched for so earnestly; the wave of Mrs. Wessington’s gloved hand; and, when she met me alone, which was but seldom, the irksome monotony of her appeal.  I loved Kitty Mannering, honestly, heartily loved her, and with my love for her grew my hatred for Agnes.  In August Kitty and I were engaged.  The next day I met those accursed “magpie” jhampanies at the back of Jakko, and, moved by some passing sentiment of pity, stopped to tell Mrs. Wessington everything.  She knew it already.

“So I hear you’re engaged, Jack dear.”  Then, without a moment’s pause:  “I’m sure it’s all a mistake—­a hideous mistake.  We shall be as good friends some day, Jack, as we ever were.”

My answer might have made even a man wince.  It cut the dying woman before me like the blow of a whip.  “Please forgive me, Jack; I didn’t mean to make you angry; but it’s true, it’s true!”

And Mrs. Wessington broke down completely.  I turned away and left her to finish her journey in peace, feeling, but only for a moment or two, that I had been an unutterably mean hound.  I looked back, and saw that she had turned her ’rickshaw with the idea, I suppose, of overtaking me.

The scene and its surroundings were photographed on my memory.  The rain-swept sky (we were at the end of the wet weather), the sodden, dingy pines, the muddy road, and the black powder-riven cliffs formed a gloomy background against which the black and white liveries of the jhampanies, the yellow-paneled ’rickshaw and Mrs. Wessington’s down-bowed golden head stood out clearly.  She was holding her handkerchief in her left hand and was leaning back exhausted against the ’rickshaw cushions.  I turned my horse up a bypath near the Sanjowlie Reservoir and literally ran away.  Once I fancied I heard a faint call of “Jack!” This may have been imagination.  I never stopped to verify it.  Ten minutes later I came across Kitty on horseback; and, in the delight of a long ride with her, forgot all about the interview.