"Mrs Desmond, you know quite well that I cannot leave you unhappy like this. If you are so determined that my brother must not know, I think I could manage without his help. Come to the Hotel to-morrow at half-past ten, and we will send off three hundred rupees to those who are troubling you most for payment."
Miss Kresney was as good as her word. She drew three hundred rupees in notes from her own small bank account, and herself went with Evelyn to the post-office whence they were safely despatched to Simla.
Some three evenings later, Owen Kresney bade his sister good-night with a quite phenomenal display of affection.
"You're a regular little trump, Linda!" he declared. "I never gave you credit for so much good sense. By Jove! I'd give a month's pay for a sight of Desmond's face if he ever finds this out! I expect he stints that poor little woman and splashes all the money on polo ponies. Glad you were able to help her; and whatever you do, don't let her pay you back too soon. If you're short of cash, you've only to ask me."
For the space of a week Honor held inflexibly aloof; and the effort it cost her seemed out of all proportion to the mildness of the punishment inflicted. It is an old story—the inevitable price paid by love that is strong enough to chastise. But this great paradox, the corner-stone of man's salvation, is a stumbling-block to lesser natures. In Evelyn's eyes Honor was merely cruel, and her own week of independence a nightmare of helpless irritation. She made one effort at remonstrance; and its futility crushed her to earth.
During the evening of their talk the matter had been tacitly avoided between them; but when, on the following morning, Honor laid books and bills upon the davenport where Evelyn sat writing, she caught desperately at the girl's hand.
"Honor, it isn't fair. How can you be so unkind?"
Honor drew her hand decisively away.