"There are generally three or four big fellows at the bend," said Shafto. "I've seen them when I come to that jheel to shoot snipe;" and he stooped to pick up a stone.
"Oh, Mr. Shafto," gasped an agonised voice, "did you see it?"
"The alligator?" flinging a stone as he spoke. "Yes; there he goes. Mark over. Watch him scuttling into the river."
"No, no, no," stammered Mrs. Wilkinson. "The face—the face of a woman—floating past. It was just under the water."
"Why, I declare, you are quite upset!" exclaimed her companion. "I'm most frightfully sorry you've seen—anything. Of course, you know that the natives bring all their dead to the river?"
"Yes, yes," she assented, with a shiver. "I've not lived in Ramghur for four years for nothing; but it gave me a shock. It looked like the face of—a white woman."
"That was simply the effect of the moonlight," he responded. "Come along; the river is making you morbid, and it's not a sound thing to loiter near it after sundown—you know they say it's full of malaria. Let me turn your thoughts inland. Now, there is something worth looking at," and he pointed to the northern horizon, on which glimmered the long line of snows.
"Ah, yes," she ejaculated. "How I love the Himalayas! my happiest days have been spent there, and my saddest. I wonder if I shall ever see them nearer than I do now?" and she sighed profoundly.
"Why, of course you will," rejoined Shafto promptly. "We shall all be there next season, please goodness, and have a ripping time; and, I say, Mrs. Wilkinson, at our first ball up there let me here and now engage you for the first waltz."
"Very well," she agreed, with a forced laugh; "it's rather a long way ahead, is it not?"