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For three days after the reception at Farabad Beryl Denvers returned to her seclusion, and during those three days she devoted the whole of her attention to the plan that Lord Ronald Prior had laid before her. It worried her a good deal. There were so many obstacles to its satisfactory fulfilment. She wished he had not been so pleasantly vague regarding his own feelings in the matter. Of course, it was a feather-brained scheme from start to finish, and yet in a fashion it attracted her. He was so splendidly safe, so absolutely reliable; she needed just such a protector. And yet—and yet—there were so many obstacles.
On the fourth day Lord Ronald's card was brought to her. He did not call at the conventional hour, and the reason for this was not hard to fathom. He had come for her final decision, and he desired to see her alone.
She did not know how to meet him or what to say, but it was useless to shirk the interview. She entered her drawing-room with decidedly heightened colour, even while telling herself that it was absurd to feel any embarrassment in his presence.
He was waiting for her on his favourite perch, the music-stool, swinging idly to and fro, with his customary serenity of demeanour. He moved to meet her with a quiet smile of welcome. A piece of strapping-plaster across his left temple was all that remained of his recent disfigurement.
"I hope my visit is not premature," he remarked as he shook hands.
"Oh, no!" she answered somewhat nervously. "I expected you. Please sit down."
He subsided again upon the music-stool, and there followed a silence which she found peculiarly disconcerting.
"You have been thinking over my suggestion?" he drawled at length.
"Yes," she said. "Yes, I have." She paused a moment, then, "I—am afraid it wouldn't answer," she said, with an effort, "though I am very grateful to you for thinking of it. You see, there are so many obstacles."
"But not insurmountable, any of them," smiled Lord Ronald.
"I am afraid so," she said.
He looked at her.
"May I not hear what they are?"
She hesitated.
"For one thing, you know," she said, "one pays one's servants."
"Well, but you can pay me," he said simply. "I shall not ask very high wages. I am easily satisfied. I shouldn't call that an obstacle."
She laughed a little.
"But that isn't all. There is the danger of being found out. It—it would make it rather awkward, wouldn't it? People would talk."
"No one ever talks scandal of me," said Lord Ronald comfortably. "I am considered eccentric, but quite incapable of anything serious. I don't think you need be afraid. There really isn't the smallest danger of my being discovered, and even if I were, I could tell the truth, you know. People always believe what I say."
She smiled involuntarily at his simplicity, but she shook her head.
"It really wouldn't do," she said.
"What! More obstacles?" he asked.
"Yes, one—the greatest of all, in my opinion." She got up and moved across the room, he pivoting slowly round to watch her.
She came to a stand by her writing-table, and began to turn over a packet of letters that lay there. She did it mechanically, with hands that shook a little. Her face was turned away from him.
He waited for a few seconds; then, as she still remained silent, he spoke.
"What is this last obstacle, Mrs. Denvers?"
She answered him with her head bent, her fingers still fluttering the papers before her.
"You," she said, in a low voice. "You yourself."
"Me!" said Lord Ronald, in evident astonishment.
She nodded without speaking.
"But—I'm sorry," he said pathetically, "I'm afraid I don't quite follow you. I am not famed for my wits, as you know."
She laughed at that, unexpectedly and quite involuntarily; and though she was instantly serious again the laugh served to clear away some of her embarrassment.
"Oh, but you are absurd," she said, "to talk like that. No dull-witted person could ever have done what you have been doing lately. Major Fletcher himself told me that day we went to Farabad that it needed sharp wits to pose as a native among natives. He also said—" She paused suddenly.
"Yes?" said Lord Ronald.
She glanced round at him momentarily.
"I don't know why I should repeat it. It is quite beside the point. He also said that it entailed a risk that no one would care to take unless—unless there was something substantial to be gained by it."
"Well, but there was," said Lord Ronald vaguely.
"Meaning my safety?" she questioned.
"Exactly," he said.
She became silent; but she fidgeted no longer with her papers. She was making up her mind to take a bold step.
"Lord Ronald," she said at last, "I am going to ask you a very direct—a horribly direct—question. Will you answer me quite directly too? And—and—tell me the truth, even if it sounds rather brutal?"
There was an unmistakable appeal in her voice. With an effort she wheeled in her chair, and fully faced him. But she was so plainly distressed that even he could not fail to notice it.
"What is it?" he said kindly. "I will tell you the truth, of course. I always do."
"You promise?" she said, very earnestly.
"Certainly I promise," he said.
"Then—you must forgive my asking, but I must know, and I can't find out in any other way—Lord Ronald, are you—are you in love with me?"
She saw the grey eyes widen in astonishment, and was conscious of a moment of overwhelming embarrassment; and then, slow and emphatic, his answer came, banishing all misgiving.
"But of course I am," he said. "I thought you knew."
She summoned to her aid an indignation she was far from feeling; she had to cloak her confusion somehow. "How could I possibly know?" she said. "You never told me."
"I asked you to marry me," he protested. "I thought you would take the other thing for granted."
She stood up abruptly, turning from him. It was impossible to keep up her indignation. It simply declined to carry her through.
"You—you are a perfect idiot!" she said shakily. And on the words she tried to laugh, but only succeeded in partially smothering a sob.
"Oh, I say!" said Lord Ronald. He got up awkwardly, and stood behind her. "Please don't take it to heart," he urged. "I shouldn't have told you, only—you know—you asked. And it wouldn't make any difference, on my honour it wouldn't. Won't you take my word for it, and give me a trial?"
"No," she said.
"Why not?" he persisted. "Don't you think you are rather hard on me? I shall never take a single inch more than you care to allow."
She turned upon him suddenly. Her cheeks were burning and her eyes were wet, but she no longer cared about his seeing these details.
"What did you mean?" she demanded unexpectedly, "by saying to me that those fight hardest who fight in vain?"
He was not in the least disconcerted.
"I meant that though you might send me about my business you would not quite manage to shake me off altogether."
"Meaning that you would refuse to go?" she asked, with a quiver that might have been anger in her voice.
"Meaning," he responded quietly, "that though you might deny me yourself, it might not be in your power to deny me the pleasure of serving you."
"And is it not in my power?" she asked swiftly.
He was looking at her very intently.
"No," he said in his most deliberate drawl. "I don't think it is."
"But it is," she asserted, meeting his look with blazing eyes. "You cannot possibly enter my service without my consent. And—and—I am not going to consent to that mad scheme of yours."
"No?" he said.
"No," she repeated with emphasis. "You yourself are the obstacle, as I said before. If—if you had not been in love with me, I might have considered it. But—now—it is out of the question. Moreover," her eyes shot suddenly downwards, as though to hide their fire, "I shall not want that sort of protector now."
"No?" he said again, very softly this time. He was standing straight before her, still closely watching her with that in his eyes that he had never permitted there before.
"No!" she repeated once more, and again brokenly she laughed; then suddenly raised her eyes to his, and gave him both her hands impetuously, confidingly, yet with a certain shyness notwithstanding. "I—I am going to marry again after all," she said, "if—if you will have me."
"My dear," said Lord Ronald, very tenderly, "I always meant to!"