"Not at all. Go on."
Each instinctively avoided the other's eyes; while Olliver, in a few curt sentences, spoke his mind on the subject in hand.
The bond that links the inhabitants of small isolated Indian stations is a thing that only the Anglo-Indian can quite understand. Desmond's illness, and the possible tragedy overhanging him, had roused such strong feeling in Kohat, that his wife's conduct—which at another time would merely have supplied material for a little mild gossip—had awakened the general sense of indignation, more especially among the men. But men are not free of speech on these matters, and it was certain pungent remarks made by little Mrs Riley of the Sikhs which had set Frank Olliver's Irish temper in a blaze. The recollection of what she had seen during Desmond's absence still rankled in her mind; and her husband, with a masculine dread of an open quarrel between the only two ladies in the Regiment, had accepted the lesser evil of speaking to Wyndham himself.
"Mind, I give Mrs Desmond credit for being more passive than active in the whole affair," he concluded, since Paul seemed disinclined to volunteer a remark. "But the deuce of it is, that I feel sure Desmond knows less about the thing than any one else. Can you see him putting up with it under any circumstances?"
Wyndham shook his head; and for a while they smoked in silence thinking their own thoughts.
"You want me," Paul asked at length, "to pass all this on to Desmond? Is that it?"
"Yes; that's it. Unless you think he knows it already."
"No,—frankly, I don't. But is it our business to enlighten him?"
"That's a ticklish question. But I'm inclined to think it is. We can't be expected to stand a bounder like Kresney hanging round one of our ladies. Why, I met him as I came here, taking her into his bungalow; and I had only just passed the sister on that old patriarch she rides. I call that going a bit too far; and I fancy Desmond would agree with me."