"Why, of course I will," said Mrs. Oliver, with a smile.
"You promise?"
"Yes. But you will come back to England."
"I shall try to come next summer, if it's only for a week," said Shere
Ali; and he made way for Violet.
She moved a few yards across the conservatory, and then stopped for Shere Ali to come level with her. "I shall write, of course, to Chiltistan," she said carelessly.
"Yes," he replied, "I go northwards from Bombay. I travel straight to Kohara."
"Very well. I will write to you there," said Violet Oliver; but it seemed that she was not satisfied. She walked slowly towards the door, with Shere Ali at her side.
"And you will stay in Chiltistan until you come back to us?" she asked. "You won't go down to Calcutta at Christmas, for instance? Calcutta is the place to which people go at Christmas, isn't it? I think you are right. You have a career in your own country, amongst your own people."
She spoke urgently. And Shere Ali, thinking that thus she spoke in concern for his future, drew some pride from her encouragement. He also drew some shame; for she might have been speaking, too, in pity for his distress.
"Mrs. Oliver," he said, with hesitation; and she stopped and turned to him. "Perhaps I said more than I meant to say a few minutes ago. I have not forgotten really that there is much for me to do in my own country; I have not forgotten that I can thank all of you here who have shown me so much kindness by more than mere words. For I can help in Chiltistan—I can really help."