“I and the Rajah!” cried Grey.
“Yes; you told him to go and ask papa. I heard you.”
“Oh, Mr Chumbley, what a poor joke,” she cried; and then she stopped short, for the handsome face and stately form of the Inche Maida, followed by one attendant, suddenly came upon them from out of a dark side-walk.
“Then I was right,” she said, holding up her finger at both in turn. “You two are lovers.”
“And we always talk about other people,” said Chumbley, as the Princess kissed Grey rather coldly upon the forehead. “Come along with us, and you shall hear.”
His frank, easy manner seemed to chase away the Inche Maida’s coldness, and laying her gloved hand upon the young man’s arm, she pressed it rather more warmly than English etiquette requires, and together they promenaded the grounds, coming twice over upon Hilton, who seemed dull and out of sorts; while Helen was full of vivacity, her eyes sparkling, her words full of bright repartee; and even the Resident, with his rather sardonic humour, seemed to look at her more kindly than usual.
This look seemed to spoil her, for she immediately after began to flirt merrily, first with one and then with another, sending poisoned stabs through Hilton’s breast, and making him gnaw his lip as he darted reproachful glances at her from time to time.
Grey saw a good deal of this as the party gradually drew together to where an al fresco supper was spread upon the lawn, and her sufferings were as acute as those of Hilton.
“She does not care for him in the least,” she said to herself, as she noted Helen’s conduct with a young officer present.
“Miss Stuart, may I take you to a seat? They are going to have supper now.”