“You are very kind.”

He was still abstracted, and hardly seemed to hear her, and, when he got out and shut the door, she leaned from the window, smiling like weary royalty.

“I will write and arrange an evening later on.  It is a promise, Mr. Heath.”

“I will come,” he replied, in the same preoccupied voice, as he raised his battered topi.

“What has he been doing?” she asked herself, in surprise, and again and again she put the same question to herself, not only that morning, but often, later on, and with ever-increasing curiosity.

IX

MRS. WILDER IS PRESENTED IN A MELTING MOOD, AND DRAYCOTT WILDER IS FORCED TO RECALL THE LINES COMMENCING “A FOOL THERE WAS”

It was a bright morning with a high wind blowing and a breath of freshness in the air that has a charm to inspire a better outlook upon life.  Everywhere it made itself felt in Mangadone, and like Pippa in the poem, the wind passed along, leaving everything and everybody a little better for its coming.  It passed through the open veranda of the huge hospital, and touched the fever patients with its cool breath; it hurried through the Chinese quarter, blew along Paradise Street, dusting the gesticulating man, and went on up the river, pretending to make the brown water change its muddy mind and run backwards instead of forwards.  It paid a little freakish attention to Mrs. Wilder’s dark hair, and it cooled the back of Hartley’s neck, as they rode along together, by the way of a lake.

They had met quite accidentally, and Hartley, who had been vaguely wishing for an opportunity to speak to Mrs. Wilder, seized upon it and offered himself as her escort.  She agreed with complimentary readiness, and they turned along a wooded road, where the shadows were deep and where Hartley felt the gripping hands of romance loosen his heart-strings.

Mrs. Wilder listened to him, or appeared to do so, which is much the same in effect, and Hartley was not critical.  She was a good listener, as women who have something else to think about often are; and so they rode along the twisting path, and the wind sang in the plumes of the bamboo trees, and Hartley believed that it sang a romantic lyric of platonic admiration, exquisitely hinted at by a tactful man, and properly appreciated by a very beautiful woman.

“By the way,” she said carelessly, “have you found that wretched little Absalom yet?  What a bother he has been since he took it into his head to go off to America, or wherever it is he went to.”

“I am glad you mentioned him,” said Hartley, his face growing suddenly serious.  “I have a question or two that I want very much to ask you.”

“A question or two?  That sounds so very legal.  Really, Mr. Hartley, I believe you credit me with having Absalom’s body hanging up in one of my almirahs.  Honestly, don’t you really believe that I had a hand in putting him out of the way?”