As he spoke, Chumbley rose slowly, left his hookah, and prepared to follow the servant; while Hilton frowned, declared that it was all very ridiculous, but smoothing his countenance, he followed the Malay, and was ushered by him into a similar room to that which they had left, to find dinner laid out in a by no means untempting style, the Malay fashion being largely supplemented by additions that the Princess had not been slow to copy from her English friends.
The Inche Maida was elegantly dressed, as Chumbley said, like her table, for her costume was as much European as Malayan, her long sweeping robe, and the delicate lace cap that rested upon her magnificent black hair, having a decidedly Parisian look, while her scarf was the simple sarong of her country, glowing with bright colours.
She smiled as they entered, but her demeanour was full of dignity, as she offered Hilton her hand, that he might lead her to the table.
Hilton drew himself up and was evidently about to refuse. The next moment he relented, and took a step forward, but he was too late to pay his hostess the compliment she asked, for she had turned to Chumbley, who held out his arm and led her to the head of the table, retiring afterwards to the foot, and facing her, while Hilton took the place upon the Princess’s right.
Perfectly unaware of Helen Perowne’s position, the two prisoners, under the genial influences of a good dinner and unexceptionable wine, while granting that their situation was perfectly absurd, were ready to acknowledge that after all it would be nonsense to do otherwise than accept it, make the best of it, and refuse to be angry about a foolish woman’s freak.
“I won’t be disagreeable any more,” thought Hilton, “but take things as they come, and be off at the first opportunity.”
“’Pon my word,” thought Chumbley, “this is better than that hot room at the fort. One always seems to be swallowing hot sunshine like melted butter with everything there one eats.”
The result was that Hilton forgot all about Helen Perowne for the time, and found himself comparing Grey Stuart with the Inche Maida as the two opposite poles of womanly beauty—the acme of the dark, and the acme of the fair. But his thoughts were to a great extent turned from the ladies to the dinner, and following Chumbley’s example, he ate heartily, drank pretty liberally of the wine—to drown care, he said—and by the time that the dessert was commenced he had concluded that life would after all be bearable without the society of Helen Perowne, who was, he told himself, a contemptible coquette.
He recanted from that declaration soon afterwards, the terms being, he thought, too hard; and then he fell into a state of wonderment at his contented frame of mind.
“I shall begin to think soon that the wound is after all not very deep.”