Up in Darjeeling on the very day that she left Poona Frank sat with Miss Benson under a massive, orchid-clad tree in the lovely Botanical Gardens, gazing moodily down into the depths of the valley far below them. Turning suddenly he found his companion looking at him. Something in her eyes moved him strongly and he forgot his caution.
"Muriel, you know how it is with, me," he said impetuously. "I oughtn't to say anything; but—well, all the men here run after you, and I can't bear it. I'm a fool, I know, but I can't help being jealous. I'm always afraid that some one of them will take you from me. The other woman seems to be forgetting me completely. She hasn't written to me for weeks, months. Surely she's tiring of me. I don't suppose she ever really cared for me—just was bored in that dull station. If—if she sets me free would you—could you ever like me well enough to marry me?"
The girl looked away over the valley and a little smile crept into her eyes. Then she turned to him and laid her hand on his.
"Dear boy, if you were free I would," she answered.
They were all alone, no one to see them; and his arms went out to her. But she drew back.
"Not yet, dear. You're another woman's property still," she said.
He bit his lip.
"Yes, you're right, sweetheart. But—well, even if I weren't, I haven't much to offer you. I'm still in debt; and I'd be only condemning you to pass all your existence in the jungle."
"There'd be no hardship in that, dear. I love the forest better than anywhere else in the world. Life in it is happiness to me."
"But would you be content to live as Mrs. Dermot does?"