She looked round the lit-up space for someone on whom to inflict herself, but Hilton was not there; she could see neither Chumbley nor the Resident, only several of the younger men, merchants and civil officers—no one at all worth talking to save the chaplain, who had been watching her wistfully all the evening, and who now stood with one hand resting upon a chair, looking as if he would have given his life for one kind word from her lips.
“Poor Arthur!” she said, in a half amused, half troubled way, “I wish he would not be so weak?”
She gave another impatient look round, but there was no victim worthy of her arrows; and with an imperious glance at Arthur Rosebury, she let her eyes once more pass over the various groups of guests, for the most part carrying on an animated conversation, and turned to enter the house.
Just as she reached one of the open French windows, a Malay servant approached, and saluted her respectfully.
“The master says will the mistress come down the garden a minute to speak to him?”
“How tiresome!” she exclaimed petulantly. “Where is my father?”
“By the river, mistress, where it is cool to smoke,” replied the man, softly. “He says he will not keep you, but you must come at once.”
This was all in broken English, but sufficiently plain to be understood.
“He might have come to me,” said Helen, impatiently. “I am so hot and tired. There, go on. No, not that way. Let us go by the side path.”
The man bowed and went on, with Helen following, when the chaplain seized the opportunity to join her.