shoulder with little rows of cartridges set all along, and at the end hung a very business-like revolver case of brown leather and of goodly length.  No toy miniature pistol would she carry, but a full-sized, heavy “six-shooter,” that might really be of use at close quarters.  She stood some minutes talking with Mr. Ghyrkins, not noticing us in the shadow of the tent some thirty yards away; Isaacs and I watched her intently—­with very different feelings, possibly, but yet intensely admiring the fair creature, so strong and pliant, and yet so erect and straight.  She turned half round towards us, and I saw there were flowers in the front of her dress.  I wondered where they had come from; they were roses—­of all flowers in the world to be blooming in the desert.  Perhaps she had brought them carefully from Fyzabad, but that was improbable; or from Pegnugger—­yes, there would be roses in the collector’s garden there.  Isaacs rose to his feet.

“Oh, come along, Griggs.  You have had quite enough tea!”

“Go ahead; I will be with you in a moment.”  But a sudden thought struck me, and I went with him, bareheaded, to greet Miss Westonhaugh.  She smiled brightly as she held out her hand.

“Good morning, Mr. Isaacs.  Thank you so much for the roses.  How did you do it?  They are too lovely!” So it was just as I thought.  Isaacs had probably despatched a man back to Pegnugger in the night.

“Very easy I assure you.  I am so glad you like them.  They are not very fresh after all though, I see,” he added depreciatingly, as men do when they give flowers to people they care about.  I never heard a man find fault with flowers he gave out of a sense of duty.  It is perhaps that the woman best loved of all things in the world has for him a sweetness and a beauty that kills the coarser hues of the rose, and outvies the fragrance of the double violets.

“Oh no!” she said, emphasising the negative vigorously.  “I think they are perfectly beautiful, but I want you to tell me where you got them.”  I began talking to Ghyrkins, who was intent on the arrangement of his guns which was going on under his eyes, but I heard the answer, though Isaacs spoke in a low voice.

“You must not say that, Miss Westonhaugh.  You yourself are the most perfect and beautiful thing God ever made.”  By a superhuman effort I succeeded in keeping my eyes fixed on Ghyrkins, probably with a stony, unconscious stare, for he presently asked what I was looking at.  I do not think Isaacs cared whether I heard him or not, knowing that I sympathised, but Mr. Ghyrkins was another matter.  The Persian had made progress, for there was no trace of annoyance in Miss Westonhaugh’s answer, though she entirely overlooked her companion’s pretty speech.

“Seriously, Mr. Isaacs, if you mean to have one of them for your badge to-day, you must tell me how you got them.”  I turned slowly round.  She was holding a single rose in her fingers, and looking from it to him, as if to see if it would match his olive skin and his Karkee shooting-coat.  He could not resist the bribe.