"But would not that have been a little marked? I think we have all been making too much of a rather foolish affair, Mrs Jardine. After all, now that Honour has refused both of the young men, there is no reason——"
"Refused them both?" cried the visitor incredulously.
"Of course. I thought you would have been sure to know," said Lady Cinnamond sweetly. She rose as she spoke, and Mrs Jardine found it well to take her leave. Her hostess watched her depart, with a rather worried little smile, and then passed along the verandah to the dressing-room where her two daughters were arranging their dresses for the evening. Marian, the elder, had married her father's aide-de-camp soon after the move to Ranjitgarh, and the return from the honeymoon was the occasion for the ball to be given by the army in their honour. Vivid scarlet geraniums were to loop up Mrs Cowper's pale amber draperies, blush-roses to nestle in the airy folds of Honour's white tarlatan, and the bride claimed her mother's attention at once.
"Dear Mamma, I want your opinion. You have such excellent taste. Where ought this spray to go? Honour says here, and I say here," illustrating each position with the aid of a pin.
"Here," said Lady Cinnamond without hesitation, indicating a third place, and both girls cried out in admiration. That was just right. They knew it went awkwardly before, but they could not quite see where it should be. Their mother threw herself into their occupation, altering a fold here and pulling out a puff there, apparently engrossed in what she was doing, but conscious, through all Marian's light-hearted chatter, of the shade on Honour's brow. Her heart ached to see it, but she would not force the girl's confidence. There was not between her and her youngest-born the sympathy which had made those other handsome, capable daughters, whose married homes were landmarks of the wanderings of Sir Arthur and his wife, regard their mother almost in the light of an elder sister—only fifteen years older, indeed, than Charlotte, the eldest—and bring their joys and sorrows naturally to her. Honour was disappointed in her parents, her mother felt; it might almost be said that she disapproved of them, and though the feeling was not new to Lady Cinnamond in her own case, since she was obliged in every new station to live down the disadvantage of being a foreigner, it raised in her a tumult of indignation that any one, and most of all his own daughter, should presume to disapprove of Sir Arthur. But Honour was very young, and even if time did not soften her views, closer acquaintance must.
"Come to my room when you are dressed, Honour, and I will lend you my pearl necklace," said Lady Cinnamond, laying her hand on the girl's shoulder. Honour's response was drowned in the noise of horse-hoofs and clanking that announced an arrival in front of the bungalow.
"Dear Papa and Charles returned already!" cried Mrs Cowper, peering through the Venetians. "Fly, Mamma! Charley, Charley, come and see whether you approve of my gown!"
Lady Cinnamond fled, in answer to the sonorous shout of "Rosa! Rosita! Sita!" which pealed through the house, and Captain Cowper entered from the verandah.
"Stunning!" he breathed fervently. "Horrid shame to waste it all on a handful of politicals up in No Man's Land instead of exhibiting it at Government House. You wear this fallal on your head, I suppose?"
"Oh, Charley, you careless fellow!" Mrs Cowper rescued the broad strip of lace with indignation. "My beautiful berthe! It goes on the bodice—so, don't you know? On my head, indeed!"