"Oh, I say! I do beg your pardon," he pleaded impetuously. "I'm most frightfully sorry—I—er—I did not know——"
"Oh, how could you?" she interrupted; "in a country where grass widows abound, a real widow is almost unknown. I suppose you are out for the usual thing—to shoot big game?"
"No, I'm only out—er—just to have a look round."
Here, alas, was another lie!
"Ah, a looker-on, something like myself; since my loss, I have just looked on—and envied happier people."
Mallender glanced at the fair speaker; she wore no outward sign of woe, not even a mourning ring; he noticed her expressive hands, blazing with diamonds, the studied perfection of her toilet; at the moment she was thoughtfully scanning the menu, and he had an excellent opportunity of critically observing her extraordinary good looks; the long black lashes, resting on a delicate cheek, smooth as ivory; the chiselled nose, clean-cut lips, and masses of dark auburn hair—which exhaled a faint, and exquisite perfume.
"I've been up north, and to Simla and Calcutta," she resumed, when she had replaced the menu with a little contented sigh, "and then I came down to Madras to see dear old Fanny. I arrived three months ago—and feel rooted!"
Mallender's raised brows indicated his amazement.
"Yes, I like this poor despised old city and its ways," here she cast a glance round the circle of guests, the band of well-trained servants, the delicacies that were being offered, and the champagne that, like a popular novel, was enjoying a brisk circulation.
"I do love it; it's all so leisurely and so comfortable. Give me comfort, and I ask no more!"