"I think he has some private affair of his own that he wants to talk over with her," explained Sandy.
"It's about his wife, I expect," answered Nan dully. "She's had sunstroke—and is ordered home from India."
"Poor devil!" The words rushed from Sandy's lips. "How rotten everything is!" he added fiercely, with youth's instinctive revolt against the inevitableness of life's pains and penalties.
"And I've hardly mended matters, have I?" she submitted rather bitterly.
He slipped a friendly arm round her neck.
"Don't you worry any," he said, with gruff sympathy. "Mallory's fixed up everything—and it all dovetails in neatly with Kitty's saying you were staying with friends for the night. You're staying here—do you see? And Mallory and the mater between 'em have settled that you're to prolong your visit for a couple of days—to give more colour to the proceedings, so to speak! You'll emerge without a stain on your character!" he went on, trying with boyish clumsiness to cheer her up.
"Oh, don't, Sandy!" Her lip quivered. "I—I don't think I mind much about that. I feel as if I'd stained my soul."
"Well, if there were no blacker souls around than yours, old thing, the world would be a darned sight nicer place to live in! And that's that."
Nan contrived a smile.
"Sandy, you're rather a dear!" she said gratefully.