"I've persuaded Mr. Flint to join us at breakfast," Robert explained to her pompously; but after this he took no notice of his wife, talking "shop" persistently with his new subordinate—all about revenue, and boundaries, and agricultural prospects, of the danger of famine should the monsoon fail or be fatally late. Stella listened with interest, though perforce she was excluded from the conversation, and instinctively she understood why Mr. Flint made no attempt to draw her into it. Mr. Flint was setting himself to please his superior, for which intention she felt thankful to him; also she was dimly aware that his object was two-fold, that he meant to make friends with Robert in order that he might the more easily be permitted to make friends with her. She effaced herself purposely, and welcomed the sudden intrusion of an excited fox terrier, who rushed into the room wildly in quest of his master.
"I must apologise for Jacob," said Mr. Flint, as the dog leapt upon him with yelps of joy. "I thought I had left him safely tied up."
Robert endured the interruption with good enough grace. He did not like dogs, would not keep any himself—to Stella's disappointment. But the disturbance was trivial. He made no comment when his wife enticed Jacob to her side with succulent scraps from her plate, and soon had him seated contentedly on her lap, lolling a red tongue, casting affectionate glances at his master across the table. To Philip this seemed a good omen. Jacob as a rule was not fond of ladies, except of his own species, and his wholesale acceptance of Mrs. Crayfield's attentions was somewhat surprising. Flint was careful to ignore Jacob, much as Colonel Crayfield ignored his wife, and he was secretly entertained when, the meal over, and Mrs. Crayfield rose from the table, Jacob trotted after her into the drawing-room, leaving his master to smoke and continue his talk with the Commissioner. Master Jacob was no fool; he knew when he had found an entrancing companion.
The morning had been a success, but Philip took his dog back to the Rest House that afternoon with feelings divided. To him the situation in regard to the Crayfields was now clear enough—an elderly man married to a young and beautiful wife whose heart was still whole, the husband loftily secure in his authority, his ownership. There was danger in prospect unless he could be certain of keeping his head; and as he thought of the girl's beauty, her youth, her attractions, and her obvious interest in himself, he feared for his own strength of mind. It might be more than wise to abandon all schemes for meetings that were not inevitable; but the temptation was strong, and he knew very well that to a certain extent he should yield to it. All the same, he would have to walk warily. An entanglement at this stage of his career might be fatal to his advancement. Colonel Crayfield was hardly the type of a complacent husband, and he had known cases during his service when appearances only had brought about irrevocable disaster to foolish, flirtatious couples who in deed as well as in purpose were innocent of actual harm.
After all, with the cynicism of circumstances, it was Colonel Crayfield himself who made matters easy. He had taken a fancy to his new assistant, invited him frequently to singles at tennis, and never suspected that Flint let him win, or beat him by such a small margin that the defeat had a stimulating effect. Stella sat by and watched these games, Jacob reposing on the edge of her skirt, or more often on her lap. Robert bore with the presence of Jacob, unless he ran after the balls or barked piercingly at squirrels. Then the Commissioner shouted abuse at "that damned dog," and Flint administered chastisement, ostensibly severe, in reality mild, that caused Jacob to retire affronted beneath Stella's chair.
When the swift Indian dusk descended, Robert, who perspired abnormally under exertion, would hasten indoors for a bath and a change, with Sher Singh in attendance, unwitting of the fact that his wife and young Flint invariably sat on side by side in the hot, scented darkness as happy companions, their fellowship ripening dangerously with each hour they could compass alone one with the other. Skilfully Flint had brought the George Thomas romance into play. He talked of it openly before Colonel Crayfield, and one night, when he was dining with the Crayfields, he confessed he had brought one or two chapters with him that he proposed, with their consent, to inflict after dinner on his host and hostess. Robert grunted contemptuously, Stella had the acumen to agree with polite indifference, and when the reading began Robert at once went to sleep and snored. The chapters were short, and, truth to tell, of little literary value, though written in easy style with a talented pen, costing the author no effort. But Stella was deeply impressed and interested. She longed to hear more of the hero, the young man of high birth who had got into such a scrape at home that he was forced to flee the country, and found himself in the service of a treacherous old native lady, the Begum Somru, whose commander-in-chief at the time was an Irish adventurer, one George Thomas. And while Robert slept and snored, Philip read and Stella listened. Then, the manuscript laid aside, they talked India in subdued voices to their hearts' content. This programme was repeated more than once, until Robert turned restive.
"Bother the boy!" he said. "Why does he want to write all this rubbish—wasting his time!"
"It's his way of amusing himself," Stella suggested carelessly, "like me with my painting and fancy work."
"Well, it doesn't amuse me to hear it, or you either, I should imagine."
"I confess I'm rather interested in the story. I feel I want to know what happens next."