students might discuss cases, relating, comparing.  They talked a great deal about Colonel Markin.  They said it was a beautiful life.  More beautiful if possible had been the life of Mrs. Markin, who was his second wife, and who had been “promoted to glory” six months before.  She had gained promotion through jungle fever, which had carried her off in three days.  The first Mrs. Markin had died of drink—­that was what had sent the Colonel into the Army, she, the first Mrs. Markin, having willed her property away from him.  Colonel Markin had often rejoiced publicly that the lady had been of this disposition, the results to him had been so blessed.  Apparently he spoke without reserve of his domestic affairs in connection with his spiritual experiences, using both the Mrs. Markins when it was desirable as “illustrations.”  The five had reached this degree of intimacy by the time the Coromandel was nearing Port Said, and every day the hemispheres of sea and sky they watched through the porthole above the Norwegian girl’s berth grew bluer.

From the first Colonel Markin had urged Miss Filbert’s immediate return to the Army.  He found her sympathetic to the idea, willing indeed to embrace it with open arms, but there were difficulties.  Mr. Lindsay, as a difficulty, was almost insuperable to anything like a prompt step in that direction.  Colonel Markin admitted it himself.  He was bound to admit it he said, but nothing, since he joined the Army, had ever been so painful to him.  “I wish I could deny it,” he said with frankness; “but there is no doubt that for the present your first duty is towards your gentleman, towards him who placed that ring upon your finger.”  There was no sarcasm in his describing Lindsay as a gentleman; he used the term in a kind of extra special sense where a person less accustomed to polite usages might have spoken of Laura’s young man.  “But remember, my child,” he continued, “it is only your poor vile body that is yours to dispose of, your soul belongs to God Almighty, and no earthly husband, especially as you say he is still in his sins, is going to have the right to interfere.”  This may seem vague, as the statement of a position, but Laura found it immensely fortifying.  That and similar arguments built her up in her determination to take up what Colonel Markin called her life-work again at the earliest opportunity.  She had forfeited her rank, that she accepted humbly as a proper punishment, ardently hoping it would be found sufficient.  She would go back as a private, take her place in the ranks, and nothing in her married life should interfere with the things that cried out to be done in Bentinck Street.  Somehow she had less hope of securing Lindsay as a spiritual companion in arms since she had confided the affair to Colonel Markin.  As he said, they must hope for the best, but he could not help admitting that he took a gloomy view of Lindsay.

“Once he has secured you,” the Colonel said, with an appreciative glance at Laura’s complexion, “what will he care about his soul?  Nothing.”