“If you do,” said Miss Howe delightedly, “we shall not be able to see.”

“Neither we should,” he assented; “the others are closed already.  Very badly built, these Calcutta houses, aren’t they?  Have you been long in India, Miss—­Captain Filbert?”

“I served a year up-country and then fell ill and had to go home on furlough.  The native food didn’t suit me.  I am stationed in Calcutta now, but I have only just come.”

“Pleasant time of the year to arrive,” Mr. Lindsay remarked.

“Yes; but we are not particular about that.  We love all the times and the seasons, since every one brings its appointed opportunity.  Last year, in Mugridabad, there were more souls saved in June than in any other month.”

“Really?” asked Mr. Lindsay; but he was not looking at her with those speculations.  The light had come back upon her face.

“I will say good-bye now,” said Captain Filbert.  “I have a meeting at half-past five.  Shall we have a word of prayer before I go?”

She plainly looked for immediate acquiescence; but Miss Howe said, “Another time, dear.”

“Oh, why not?” exclaimed Duff Lindsay.  Hilda put the semblance of a rebuke into her glance at him, and said, “Certainly not.”

“Oh,” Captain Filbert cried, “don’t think you can escape that way!  I will pray for you long and late to-night, and ask my lieutenant to do so too.  Don’t harden your heart, Miss Howe—­the Lord is waiting to be compassionate.”

The two were silent, and Laura walked toward the door.  Just where the sun slanted into the room and made leaf-patterns on the floor, she turned and stood for an instant in the full tide of it; and it set all the loose tendrils of her pale yellow hair in a little flame, and gave the folds of the flesh-coloured sari that fell over her shoulder the texture of draperies so often depicted as celestial.  The sun sought into her face, revealing nothing but great purity of line and a clear pallor, except where below the wide, light-blue eyes two ethereal shadows brushed themselves.  Under the intentness of their gaze she made as if she would pass out without speaking; and the tender curves of her limbs, as she wavered, could not have been matched out of mediaeval stained glass.  But her courage, or her conviction, came back to her at the door, and she raised her hand and pointed at Hilda.

“She’s got a soul worth saving.”

Then the portiere fell behind her, and nothing was said in the room until the pad of her bare feet had ceased upon the stair.

“She came out in the Bengal with us,” Hilda told him—­this is not a special instance of it, but she could always gratify Duff Lindsay in advance—­“and she was desperately seedy, poor girl.  I looked after her a little, but it was mistaken kindness, for now she’s got me on her mind.  And as the two hundred and eighty million benighted souls of India are her continual concern, I seem a superfluity.  To think of being the two hundred and eighty-first millionth oppresses one.”