"It's revolting," she said. "He's the kind of man a woman of her type would choose. The least she can do is to leave Gaya."
"She's not going to, though. The whole station is a divided camp and armed to the teeth about it. Half of us want to cut her and half want to swallow him for her sake. Mary Compton and Mrs. Bosanquet are for swallowing—and so am I. I don't see why people shouldn't do as they like."
Anne's lips curled.
"You would choose the easy way, mother."
Mrs. Boucicault shot her a glance, which was not entirely free from malice.
"Hardly easy in this case. Think of the complications! Think of Rasaldû going about like a comic thunder-storm! Think of our pet official snobs. Oh, we shall live to see exciting times. More tea, Tristram?"
He shook his head and placed a half-emptied cup on the table. Throughout Mrs. Boucicault's garrulous chatter he had been watching her narrowly and almost as though he were listening to something beneath her words. Now he turned and met his wife's eyes with an unflinching directness. It seemed to check an impulsive answer. She got up sharply.
"I'd better go and help the ayah unpack," she said. "I'll drive round and see father tonight, mother. Let him know."
"Of course, dear. He'll be so delighted. I'll go home now and leave you two to settle down. Tell the syce to bring round the cart, will you, Tristram?"
On parting, she kissed them again with her new absent-minded effusiveness and patted Anne's shoulder. "It's so nice to see you happy at last, child. By the way, you've never asked after poor Owen—and he's so devoted."