Sir Arthur's pessimism did not keep him from paying Honour a fatherly compliment on her appearance that evening—a compliment accompanied, however, as the jam by the powder, with the reminder that she might be thankful if she ever arrived within measurable distance of her mother in looks. Lady Cinnamond, in pink satin, with a black lace shawl depending from a high jewelled comb at the back of her head in a manner reminiscent of the mantilla of her youth, laughed at the assurance, and hurried her party out to the elephant which was in waiting. The bridal pair were inclined to be pensive, privately lamenting the waste of a whole evening in public which might have been spent in a sweet solitude à deux on the verandah. Ostensibly out of consideration for the ladies' dresses, Captain Cowper had suggested that he and his wife should follow on a second elephant, but this was vetoed by his father-in-law, who declared that they would, in pure absence of mind, go for a moonlight ride through the city, and never arrive at the ball. Thus, with jests and counter-jests, they reached the great shamiana, erected for the occasion, and were swallowed up in an overwhelming flood of scarlet and dark blue uniforms. When Honour took off her wrap, her mother observed with vexation that they had both forgotten the pearl necklace, but it did not occur to her that the girl's absence of mind was due to the fact that she was nerving herself to a desperate deed.
With the laudable idea of discouraging gossip by behaving as if nothing unpleasant had happened, Gerrard secured a dance, and sheer pity for his embarrassed partner impelled him to make conversation while they waited for the music to begin. Colonel Antony disapproved of dancing, especially in India, on account of the effect on the natives, but his brother James had just passed them, with Marian Cowper, a radiant vision, on his arm, and Gerrard ventured a remark on the contrast between the stern-featured civilian and his partner. Receiving nothing but an almost inaudible murmur of assent, he observed how well and happy Mrs Cowper was looking.
"Oh yes. Of course, she likes India." The sigh which accompanied the
words told more than Honour had intended, and she went on hastily.
"She has a sort of natural connection with it, you know, for Mrs
Hastings was her godmother."
"Mrs Hastings? Not——?"
"Yes, the widow of Warren Hastings. Doesn't it carry one back into history?" Honour had forgotten her embarrassment, for things of this kind had a way of making links between Gerrard and herself.
"I should have thought it was impossible."
"Oh, she only died about ten years ago—yes, the year the Queen came to the throne. So I am not making poor Marian out to be terribly old."
The minds of both were wandering back to Westminster Hall filled with serried rows of faces, with all eyes turned upon a small pale man in the midst, when they were suddenly recalled to the present by the indignant approach of Bob Charteris.
"Pardon me—my dance, I think?" he said, glaring at Gerrard.
"No, excuse me—my dance," returned Gerrard, maintaining his position, and suspecting his friend unjustly of having supped early and too well.