But Ballantyne had overtried her to-night.  Her face suddenly flushed and with a swift and violent gesture she tore at the necklace round her throat.  The clasp broke, the beads fell with a clatter upon her plate, leaving her throat bare.  For a moment Ballantyne stared at her, unable to believe his eyes.  So many times he had made her the butt of his savage humour and she had offered no reply.  Now she actually dared him!

“Why did you do that?” he asked, pushing his face close to hers.  But he could not stare her down.  She looked him in the face steadily.  Even her lips did not tremble.

“You told me to wear them.  I wore them.  You jeer at me for wearing them.  I take them off.”

And as she sat there with her head erect Thresk knew why he had bidden her to wear them.  There were bruises upon her throat—­upon each side of her throat—­the sort of bruises which would be made by the grip of a man’s fingers.  “Good God!” he cried, and before he could speak another word Stella’s moment of defiance passed.  She suddenly covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.

Ballantyne pushed back his chair sulkily.  Thresk sprang to his feet.  But Stella held him off with a gesture of her hand.

“It’s nothing,” she said between her sobs.  “I am foolish.  These last few days have been hot, haven’t they?” She smiled wanly, checking her tears.  “There’s no reason at all,” and she got up from her chair.  “I think I’ll leave you for a little while.  My head aches and—­and—­I’ve no doubt I have got a red nose now.”

She took a step or two towards the passage into her private tent but stopped.

“I can leave you to get along together alone, can’t I?” she said with her eyes on Thresk.  “You know what women are, don’t you?  Stephen will tell you interesting things about Rajputana if you can get him to talk.  I shall see you before you go,” and she lifted the screen and went out of the room.  In the darkness of the passage she stood silent for a moment to steady herself and while she stood there, in spite of her efforts, her tears burst forth again uncontrollably.  She clasped her hands tightly over her mouth so that the sound of her sobbing might not reach to the table in the centre of the big marquee; and with her lips whispering in all sincerity the vain wish that she were dead she stumbled along the corridor.

But the sound had reached into the big marquee and coming after the silence it wrung Thresk’s heart.  He knew this of her at all events—­that she did not easily cry.  Ballantyne touched him on the arm.

“You blame me for this.”

“I don’t know that I do,” answered Thresk slowly.  He was wondering how much share in the blame he had himself, he who had ridden with her on the Downs eight years ago and had let her speak and had not answered.  He sat in this tent to-night with shame burning at his heart.  “It wasn’t as if I had no confidence in myself,” he argued, unable quite to cast back to the Thresk of those early days.  “I had—­heaps of it.”