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said.
    â€œAnd are you?” asked Miss Lauriston.
    â€œNot a bit.”
    His eyes laughed at her, and she blushed a little, very prettily.
    â€œDon’t you ever dance, Captain Morton?”
    â€œI did once.”
    â€œOnly once? Why was that?”
    â€œThe casualty list was too heavy. You see I tread on people, and my feet are so large. Six young ladies cut me dead next day.”
    â€œOh!” said Adela, in a soft vague voice. She never quite knew whether Captain Morton was in earnest or not.
    He was frowning, and he looked grave, but his eyes twinkled.
    â€œOne bouquet, two flounces, three fans, one set of— what do you call ’ems—gathers—is that right? and four lost programmes, besides a girl who was lame for a week, because I stepped right on her foot. I said I couldn’t help it, and that seemed to make things worse. It really was a large foot, though. But you see how it was that I didn’t persevere with my dancing.”
    â€œIt is very pleasant sitting here,” said Adela gently.
    His remark about flounces had reminded her of her own. She bent her head and tried to see if there were a tear. How that foolish Francis Manners had crushed her skirt! And, oh, dear, how tiresome, how too tiresome, the blonde flounce was certainly torn! That was the worst of blonde; it tore so easily, and only looked well when it was quite fresh. She wondered if Helen would darn it—Helen darned so beautifully. Or perhaps it would be better to put another cluster of geraniums there, quite a small one. That would hide the place. Her face had a pensive expression which softened it. Richard Morton’s blood stirred as he looked at her and thought how sweet she was. How sweet and dear, how young and gentle!
    â€œYes, it is very—pleasant,” he said, and his eyes dwelt on her.
    â€œIs India like this?” she asked idly.
    â€œIndia is rather a big place, Miss Lauriston.”
    â€œMy cousin, Helen Wilmot, is going to India this autumn. You know her father, my uncle Edward, don’t you?”
    â€œYes, I know him.”
    There was no particular enthusiasm in Captain Morton’s voice.
    â€œIt is five years—no, more—seven years since he was in England. I should think Helen would find it very strange, going out to a father she has not seen for so long. She would have gone out before, only her grandmother was ill for a long time. She died at Christmas. That is why Helen is not going about. We wanted her to come here to-night, but she would not. She was very fond of her grandmother—Mrs. Wilmot’s mother you know, no relation of ours.”
    Captain Morton felt no special interest in Miss Wilmot’s affairs, but he liked listening to Adela. He thought her solicitude for her cousin very pretty and womanly.
    â€œWould you like to go out to India?” he asked abruptly, and Adela coloured.
    â€œI? Oh, I am never likely to go there.”
    â€œNever is a very long day. Should you like to go?”
    â€œI don’t know. Do you like it?”
    â€œWell enough, but I’m a poor homeless creature, you know.”
    â€œDo you mean that you live in a tent?”
    â€œNo, I didn’t mean quite that.” He paused a moment, and then went on lightly, “My friend George Blake and I share a great tomb of a house—a regular whited sepulchre—rooms about thirty feet high. Furniture chiefly matting.”
    â€œIt sounds—cold,” said Adela, feeling she was expected to say something.
    â€œI wish it felt cold,” said Captain Morton heartily, “I only wish it did. Most of the time it feels a great deal too hot to be pleasant. But I go out to Peshawur, in the North, and there it really is cold, for a couple of months or so, and when the spring comes the whole place is smothered in roses and peach blossom.”
    â€œHow beautiful!”
    â€œWouldn’t you like to see it?”
    â€œOh, yes,