intended for his eyes.  Nice position—­that!  Dolly, too, last night, had seen.  But that was different.  Women might see things—­it was expected of them.  But for a man—­a—­a gentleman!  The fullness of his embarrassment gradually disclosed itself.  His hands were tied.  Could he even consult Dolly?  He had a feeling of isolation, of utter solitude.  Nobody—­not anybody in the world—­could understand his secret and intense discomfort.  To take up a position—­the position he was bound to take up, as Olive’s nearest relative and protector, and—­what was it—­chaperon, by the aid of knowledge come at in such a way, however unintentionally!  Never in all his days in the regiment—­and many delicate matters affecting honour had come his way—­had he had a thing like this to deal with.  Poor child!  But he had no business to think of her like that.  No, indeed!  She had not behaved—­as—­And there he paused, curiously unable to condemn her.  Suppose they got up and came that way!

He took his hands off the stone parapet, and made for his hotel.  His palms were white from the force of his grip.  He said to himself as he went along:  “I must consider the whole question calmly; I must think it out.”  This gave him relief.  With young Lennan, at all events, he could be angry.  But even there he found, to his dismay, no finality of judgment.  And this absence of finality, so unwonted, distressed him horribly.  There was something in the way the young man had been sitting there beside her—­so quiet, so almost timid—­that had touched him.  This was bad, by Jove—­very bad!  The two of them, they made, somehow, a nice couple!  Confound it!  This would not do!  The chaplain of the little English church, passing at this moment, called out, “Fine morning, Colonel Ercott.”  The Colonel saluted, and did not answer.  The greeting at the moment seemed to him paltry.  No morning could be fine that contained such a discovery.  He entered the hotel, passed into the dining-room, and sat down.  Nobody was there.  They all had their breakfast upstairs, even Dolly.  Olive alone was in the habit of supporting him while he ate an English breakfast.  And suddenly he perceived that he was face to face already with this dreadful situation.  To have breakfast without, as usual, waiting for her, seemed too pointed.  She might be coming in at any minute now.  To wait for her, and have it, without showing anything—­how could he do that?

He was conscious of a faint rustling behind him.  There she was, and nothing decided.  In this moment of hopeless confusion the Colonel acted by pure instinct, rose, patted her cheek, and placed a chair.

“Well, my dear,” he said; “hungry?”

She was looking very dainty, very soft.  That creamy dress showed off her dark hair and eyes, which seemed somehow to be—­flying off somewhere; yes—­it was queer, but that was the only way to put it.  He got no reassurance, no comfort, from the sight of her.  And slowly he stripped the skin from the banana with which he always commenced breakfast.  One might just as well be asked to shoot a tame dove or tear a pretty flower to pieces as he expected to take her to task, even if he could, in honour.  And he sought refuge in the words: