She rose, lifted her riding-whip from the table and took her skirt in her hand.
"Yes, I am!" she said.
She moved towards the verandah, visible through the carved screen of wood that filled a part of the wall: stopping before a quaint Cashmiri mirror that hung upon it to set her hat straight and tie her veil.
Terrington's eyes followed her as he stirred his tea.
"Where do you ride?" he asked, as she went towards the door.
She turned in the entrance, facing him, against the crimson folds of the purdah.
"Everywhere," she said.
"You'll have to give it up," he announced tranquilly.
She stood an instant longer, her lithe brown figure framed in the curtains' crimson and gold, to let him realize the defiance under her lowered eyelids and the scorn of her little lifted chin. Then she pushed back the purdah and stepped out into the sun.