“You know Rog—­, my husband, do not you?” I say, with an abrupt bluntness that contrasts finely with the languid gentleness with which her little remarks steal out like mice. Mine rushes forth like a desolating bombshell.

“A little—­yes.”

“You knew him in India, did not you?” say I, unable to resist the temptation of seizing this opportunity to gratify my curiosity, drawing my chair a little nearer hers, and speaking with an eagerness which I, in vain, try to stifle.

“Yes,” smiling sweetly, “in India.”

“He was there a long time,” continue I, communicatively.

“Yes.”

(Well, she is baffling! when she does not say “yes” affirmatively, she says it interrogatively.)

“All the same he did not like it,” I go on, with amicable volubility; “but I dare say you know that.  They say—­” (reddening as I feel, perceptibly, and nervously twisting my pocket-handkerchief round my fingers)—­“that people are so sociable in India:  now, I dare say you saw a good deal of him.”

“Yes; we met several times.”

She is smiling again.  There is not a shade of hesitation or unreadiness in her low voice, nor does the faintest tinge of color stain the fine pallor of her cheeks.

(It must have been a lie!)

“Your husband, too, is out—­” I pause; not sure of the locality, but she does not help me, so I add lamely, “somewhere, is not he?”

“He is in the West Indies.”

“In the West Indies!” cry I, with animation, drawing my chair yet a little nearer hers, and feeling positively friendly; “why, that is where mine is too!”

“Yes?”

“We are companions in misfortune,” cry I, heartily; “we must keep up each other’s spirits, must not we?”

Another smile, but no verbal answer.

A noise of feet coming across the hall—­of manly whistling makes itself heard.  The door opens and Algy enters.  It is clear that he is unaware of there being any stranger present, for his hat is on his head, his hands are in his pockets, and he only stops whistling to observe: 

“Well, Nancy! any more aborigines?” then he breaks suddenly off, and we all grow red—­he himself beaming of as lively a scarlet as the new tunic that he tried on last night.  I make a hurried and confused presentation, in which I manage to slur over into unintelligibility and utter doubtfulness the names of the two people made known to one another.

“One more aborigine, you see!” says Mrs. Huntley, to my surprise—­after the experience I have had of her fine taste in monosyllables—­ beginning the conversation.  I look at her with a little wonder.  Her voice is quite as low as ever, but there is an accent of playfulness in it; and on her face a sparkle of esprit, whose possible existence I had not conjectured.  Certainly, she showed no symptom of playfulness or esprit during our late talk.  I have yet to learn that