"Miss Crayfield?" he said tentatively, and at the same moment he caught sight of her wedding ring, the only ring she was wearing. "I mean"—correcting himself hastily, with a sense of acute disappointment—"Mrs. Crayfield." Solemnly they shook hands. Then their eyes met and they both laughed. That mutual, spontaneous laughter sealed an instinctive friendship. Stella waved him to a chair and took one herself. Previous to his arrival she had been feeling so languid, so dull; now everything was different; the very atmosphere became cheerful, the heat less oppressive.
"You must forgive my mistake," he said, and his blue eyes twinkled, "but it was your fault. You don't look quite like a Mrs. Commissioner, at least, not the kind I am accustomed to."
"Oh, you're not the first person to reproach me for being young," Stella told him, thinking of Mrs. Cuthell. "I really shall have to do something if the hot weather refuses to turn my hair grey."
"What did the other people say?" he inquired lightly, though in truth he felt curious to know if these same other people had been men who, like himself, were nonplussed by the sight of her beauty and youth.
"Nothing at all nice, so perhaps we'd better talk about something else. Tell me, what do you think of Rassih?"
"Until this morning I thought it a God-forsaken hole!"
She blushed, divining the bold insinuation. He watched the bright colour creep into her cheeks, delighting in her moment of embarrassment. Then he came to her aid with commonplace remarks as to the climate, the surroundings, the new railway line.
"It doesn't strike a new-comer as a tempting spot, but it must be interesting for anyone with a weakness for Indian history."
"Oh, don't begin about the mutiny and this dreadful old house!" protested Stella.