Salwey's eyes brightened.
"Yes, I have that—experience."
"I was walking on the road the other day when he drove by in that battered old phaeton of his; when he saw me he pulled up, and said: 'Oh, what a pity about your pretty things, Miss Sahib, I am so sorry. I think the watch and chain might be got, if you would give reward—say, of three hundred rupees.'"
"Yes?" said Salwey.
"I refused; I told him I had no money to spare."
"No," put in Pussy, "for she has spent it all on my bicycle."
Verona coloured vividly, and Salwey said: "If you will write me out a list of all the things that have been stolen, I should like to see what I can do, on the principle of 'Better late than never.'"
"I will—thank you very much," the clock was now striking six, and Verona rose to depart. She had enjoyed an hour of what had once been her everyday life, a woman's brilliant, cultivated talk, and dainty refined surroundings, a man's astonished first look—and subsequent subdued homage. Oh, she knew it all so well! For one short hour she had been back at Cannes, with the sun setting over the Estorells. The sun here had just set behind the sugar factory, where her father was employed; she was nothing more or less than a foolish discontented half-caste, who had momentarily forgotten her place in the world, and must at once return home, or her mother would be angry.
Salwey accompanied Verona and Pussy, carrying magazines and papers, the gift of his aunt; almost before he left them he must have heard an irritable:
"Now, where have you two been? Oh, my! you are late. And look at Pussy in a pink blouse! How set up she is!"