A faint flush crept into Anne's cheeks. For an instant, at least, her composure wavered.
"I hadn't forgotten. How is he?"
"Dreadfully disfigured, poor fellow—and his sight affected. But he goes on with his work just the same—like a real martyr. It's such a pity the natives don't appreciate it. They pretend he has the evil eye, and run away from him. Terrible, isn't it?"
"I shall have to look him up," Tristram observed.
"Do—you're so clever." She took her place in the dog-cart with the lightness and ease of a much younger woman. Then as the syce jerked the reins, she bent down. "Tristram, will you be coming round, too, this evening?"
"Yes," he answered gravely.
"Well—when you've seen Richard—will you have a talk with me—a professional talk? I believe I'm getting an Indian liver, and the natives seem to have such a holy terror of your concoctions that I'm sure they're effective. Will you?"
"Rather!" He laughed, though the blue eyes remained seriously intent. "And I'll bring my deadliest blue pills with me," he promised.
As the cart swung through the compound gates Mrs. Boucicault turned her head and looked back. Tristram waved, but Anne gave no sign. Her face was set and hard as Tristram turned to her. He slipped his arm with a rather shy affection through hers.
"Aren't you satisfied, dear?"