"What was it, child?" he said.
She raised her head from the crimson silk, leaning towards him against his hand, and mopping her eyes with the ghost of a handkerchief.
"It was the fur," she sobbed; "it felt so soft."
The explanation explained nothing to Terrington—a woman never seemed so unreasonable to him as when she gave her reasons—but its incomprehensibility absolved him from attempted consolation.
"Well," he smiled, "you mustn't cry again till you're across the border. Hukm hai!"
She looked up at him, leaning still against his hand.
"I'm afraid of your orders," she said shyly.
"Well, there's another," he went on with his paternal air; "you must wear everything warm you've got and pack only what you can put on later."
"I've nothing warm," she said with half a sob.
"Oh, come!" he rallied her; "then I'll have to send round the men who are padding your doolie to pad you too! How about that shooting suit of yours?"