"I believe this is our dance," suggested Salwey, with admirable invention and composure, rising and pushing back his chair, "and it has already begun. Shall we go?"
In another moment Verona and her partner had disappeared, leaving Lady Ida gazing at a certain group at a side table, and greatly puzzled to know whether Verona Chandos were in jest or earnest. Then she suddenly remembered that there was some queer story about the girl's relations in India, and her ladyship relapsed into unwonted silence, and left her supper untouched, and as soon as her cavalier was movable, requested him to pilot her to the upper seats in the ball room, where she lost no time in making a search for a certain lady in a purple gown.
"We are just in time," said Salwey, as he and his partner re-entered the ball room; "we can have a second supper." He felt the hand on his arm trembling, and the girl's face was ashen pale; undoubtedly the scene at the supper table had told; but she maintained an air of composure, and the dignity of a high-bred silence, and in another moment they were launched upon the current of dancers. The waltz was a well-known German favourite—many a step had Verona danced to it elsewhere. When the last bar had sobbed away into the empty air, Salwey led his companion out to the great flagged terrace which overlooks the river.
It was a splendid Eastern night, light as day—no Indian ball would be complete without the moon. There were numbers of couples on the terrace, and Salwey guided his partner to where there were two spare seats, close to the parapet! No skulking in corners for him. He was proud to be seen with the new Miss Chandos.
"There is a lot of 'go' about this dance, is there not?" he remarked. "It is like a bit of your former life—old friends and all. I say, what a change it must have been to you, coming out to Manora."
"It was," she assented, without lifting her eyes from the river.
"I am going to propose"—he paused; she turned and looked at him gravely—"another change." And in quite a matter-of-fact voice he added:
"Miss Chandos, will you marry me?"
For a moment she stared at him, as if unable to realise the question.
A host of thoughts flew through her brain. Only one little month ago she had been prepared to marry Captain Haig, and she now recalled this fact with a sense of shame. But her mother's tongue and temper had strained her courage beyond the pitch of endurance. At the approach of her step she mentally quailed; at the sound of her voice her heart fluttered. Since then she had fought a stern battle with herself; she had braced her soul to accept the inevitable. Her health was better, her nerves were more composed, and she had resolved never to marry. Here was the first and only proposal she had received since her arrival in India (the promised land of proposals), and what a curious contrast was presented by this wooer to her former numerous suitors. He was a mere nobody—a Superintendent of Police. But then, he was not suing for the hand of Verona Chandos, the great heiress, but the hand of Verona, the penniless half-caste. He was well acquainted with her history, and with her circle of most undesirable connections. Whatever had been in the minds of her former lovers, this generous man was entirely disinterested. He cared for nothing but herself. Nevertheless, she was determined to say No. She would refuse to spoil his life, and to drag him into her miserable affairs. His aunt, too, who loved her as a protégée, would undoubtedly detest her as a niece!