"The tank is about eight miles away, isn't it?" said the hostess. "I'll write to the Maharajah and ask him to lend us camels to take us out. My cook will put up a good cold lunch for us."
She rose from her chair and continued:
"Now, Mr. Wargrave, come and sing something. I've been trying over those new songs of yours to-day."
She led the way into the drawing-room and Raymond was left alone on the verandah to smoke and listen for the rest of the evening, while the others forgot him as they played and sang.
Suddenly he sat up in his chair and with a queer little pang of jealousy in his heart stared through the open window at the couple at the piano. He watched his friend's face turned eagerly towards his hostess. Wargrave was gazing intently at her as in a voice full of feeling and pathos, a voice with a plaintive little tone in it that thrilled him strangely, she sang that haunting melody "The Love Song of Har Dyal." Wistfully, sadly, she uttered the sorrowful words that Kipling puts into the mouth of the lovelorn Pathan maiden:
"My father's wife is old and harsh with years
And drudge of all my father's house am I
My bread is sorrow and my drink is tears
Come back to me, Beloved, or I die!
Come back to me, Beloved, or I die!"