"I do, my dear."
"Then I think it's mean and disloyal of you. You were one of the first to kow-tow to her——"
Mrs. Bosanquet settled herself back fatly and serenely unoffended.
"I did—I don't deny it. I kow-towed. Figuratively, I licked her boots. She could have walked over me if she'd had a fancy for mountaineering. She could have done a high-kick under the Viceroy's nose and I should have applauded to poor George's everlasting undoing. She could have eloped with that puppy Radcliffe. She could have become Rani of Gaya and worn a nose-ring. My ample bosom would still have welcomed her. But that man! No. It's not only the man, but it's what must be in her to be able to touch him with a fire-tongs. There's a rotten streak in her—there must be. And even if one got over that—well, it isn't feasible. One can't swallow her without him, and it's too big a mouthful. Can you imagine sitting down to dinner with him?"
Mary Compton faced her visitor. She held herself very straight, and her brown, alert face had a rigid look about it which boded trouble.
"Yes, I can," she said quietly. "It's a possibility everybody will have to face who comes here."
"Mary!"
She nodded confirmation. She lost her first rather tremulous aggressiveness and became quiet and resolute, her hazel eyes sparkling with the zest of battle.
"Yes, Archie and I figured it out as soon as we heard. We don't understand—we don't pretend to—and—and we hate it. Nobody can loathe it more than I do. I've run counter to that man, and I can guess what we're in for. But we're going to stick to her. We didn't become her pals on the understanding that she was to marry one of our nice select circle. She was just Sigrid. Well, as far as we're concerned, she's Sigrid still. Her husband's her business."
"Then," said Mrs. Bosanquet gravely, "you're in for a fight with the whole station—and, what's more, with an unwritten law which is based on sound principles. 'East is East and West is West and never the twain shall meet.' But they do meet occasionally, and it's then the trouble begins. We can do with a Rasaldû because we're not responsible for him—it's like watching a foreigner eat peas with his knife—but Barclay, no—he's a scandalous, illegitimate relation, and the more he claims us the more uncomfortable we get. My dear, we shall fight to the last ditch, and you'll be beaten, and badly beaten. You'll damage yourselves, and that's about all."