"I don't know—I guessed."
"My wife doesn't like animals about the place," he said steadily. "I do what I can for the little chap. You see, in Heerut it was different—and I don't live at Heerut now."
"Of course not. You have become so civilized." They had reached the verandah steps and she turned to him with a laugh. "So civilized. The old landmarks have gone—the beard, the disreputable clothes, the wild-man-o'-the-wood's hair—and heaven knows what else! Is there anything left of the Dakktar Sahib, or is he smothered under the respectability of Major Tristram?" Her eyes ran over him—mockingly. He raised his right hand—he could not have told why. It was at once a movement of pain and self-defence. Then he saw that her eyes were on his wrist. "I'm sorry——" she said, gently. "I am intolerable. There are things one must believe in or perish—Forgive me. And, for a wedding-present, will you give Richard back to me? I think he would be happier."
He nodded. He had the feeling that therewith something for which he had fought had been finally surrendered. He followed her silently up the steps. At the top they were met by Anne. She went up to her husband and put her hand on his arm. She did not look at Sigrid, and the deliberateness of her disregard betrayed how keenly she felt the other's presence. Her obstinate mouth was compressed and unsmiling.
"I have been wanting you, Tris," she said sharply. "Where have you been?"
"With your father," he answered. "I'm sorry. I did not know you were looking for me."
"You might have told me——" Her voice sounded pettish and breathless. "I should have come with you. And you haven't danced with me once."
He laughed. He felt rather than saw that Sigrid had turned away and joined one of the parties of the verandah. He heard Radcliffe offer her his place and the sulky deference in the boy's voice. It gave him a sudden knowledge of the fight she was waging.
"I can't dance—not even as well as a polar-bear," he said. "You've married a loutish barbarian, Anne."
"Your barbarism seems to appeal to some people," she flashed back. He knew then that she had listened. But he could feel no resentment. She looked ill and almost old. Her home-made evening dress did not become her, and the Indian sun had begun to drain the colour from her cheeks. As though remorse-stricken, she pressed his arm, looking up at him pathetically. "Tris, I didn't mean to be cross and horrid. I wanted to go home with you——"