Desmond, in pursuance of a policy which at least saved Lenox from the sharpest sting of all, had managed to ride close behind Quita and Garth; and being nimbler in dismounting than the older man, had successfully usurped his privilege of lifting her from the saddle. She herself, though not a little puzzled as to the meaning of it all, was beginning to relish the humour of the game; and as Desmond escorted her into the tent, she turned upon him a smile of unabashed amusement.
"This is flattering! I appear to have made a conquest of Monsieur le
Capitaine!"
"And for once appearances are not deceitful," he capped her straight.
"How enchantingly direct you are! But at this rate Mrs Desmond really will disapprove. . ."
"No fear! Mrs Desmond is enjoying it quite as much as I am!"
She divined a hidden meaning in his words: but merely lifted her eyebrows and shoulders in characteristic fashion.
"Well—it she doesn't object, I am sure I don't!"
"Nor I, by any means. . . . Come this way."
He led her across the tent, having noted and admired his wife's skilful bit of strategy: and Lenox instinctively took the same direction.
Quita chose the chair farthest from the Palace group; and in a few moments, she knew that her husband was standing close behind her. It was the first time he had deliberately approached her since their encounter at the ball: and the silent tribute, so characteristic of the man, elated her with a renewed sense of power over a personality immeasurably stronger than her own. It was like bringing down big game after the mild diversion of shooting pheasants. But he had spent the whole morning in the verandah with Honor Desmond; and the remembrance still rankled. Upset her equanimity as he might, the spirit of surrender was still far from her.