She passed on her errand, and presently in answer to a whisper from Mrs. Bourne, approached Mallender with a cup of tea. He was so shockingly altered, that she could hardly believe that this was the same gay and good-looking young officer whom she had known six months previously.
His head had been shaven, his face was drawn and colourless, his once merry eyes looked lustreless; they had a strained expression, and were sunken in deep hollows. As she put out her hand, he gazed at her listlessly.
"How do you do, Captain Mallender, I hope you remember me?"
"Er—yes—I think so," he answered uncertainly, "in—in Madras, was it? You rode the chestnut polo pony"; he made no attempt to take her hand, nevertheless she drew up a chair, and sat down beside him.
"Where is he?" he asked, after a silence, during which, as she surveyed him, the girl told herself that Death on the pale horse was swiftly approaching her companion! poor, poor fellow! and her eyes suddenly filled with unexpected tears.
"Where is he?" he persisted. "What have you done with him—the old buffer with the fat neck?"
"I don't know who you are talking about," she answered, softly. "If it is my father, he died—he——"
"No, no," he interrupted, peevishly, "I mean the other—the one you married?"
"But I'm not married," she answered, colouring.
"So I see you and Miss Miller are old friends," said Tom, now joining the little party, and drawing up a chair.