CHAPTER XXVII

  “For lo! the winter is past,
  and the rain is over and gone!”—­The Bible.

“That’s Lady Hickle!”

The two men turned in their saddles as Leonie went by at a canter near the rails.

The raking great waler forging ahead like an engine of destruction was kept in check by Leonie, exuberant with health, the knowledge of a perfect seat and hands, and that uprush of spirits which an early ride on the Maidan brings—­to some of us.

“Not the Lady Hickle?”

“The same!”

“Well, I’m damned! she’s only a girl, and what a seat!  Chucked the millions, too, didn’t she?  Having a good time?”

John Thorne frowned as he backed his horse before answering.

“We’re great friends,” he said shortly, and the other man tapped his teeth with his whip.

Thorne hadn’t the slightest intention of implanting a snub, as the other man knew, knowing him and his most unfortunate manner.

Friends, yes! they were friends, two strong, super-sensitive characters drawn in sympathy one to the other; and John Thorne would have liked to have been a good deal more than a friend, but he had the sense to realise that the only kind of woman he could ever ask to share his rising fortune, bad manners, and worse temper, would be of the type designated in the short and unromantic word cow.

One of those slumbrous, sleek creatures who stand knee deep and content in a field of domestic trivialities; ruminate placidly upon the happy little events of the past hour; and always find a hedge under which to shelter at the first intimation of a storm.

Lucky, lucky cattle who do not know the temperamental ups and downs, the mental lights and shadows, the physical and psychological upheavals, or the intense joys and griefs of the more highly strung goat.

At that moment Leonie rode back slowly with some friends, and smiled at John Thorne.

“No!” Thorne went on meditatively, “no, she’s not having a good time.  I can’t quite make it out.  You see, although she was only married for a day, the defunct tradesman husband rather overshadows her father’s splendid career—­old Bob Hetth, V.C., you remember.  It would in this caste-bound country.  Caste amongst us, ye gods!  Then her clothes are really lovely, oh! ripping! make Chowringhee confections look as though they’d come from the durzi or the Lal Bazaar.  And it seems that she’s living on her capital, and that her hair curls naturally——­”

The other man laughed out loud.

“Oh! you needn’t laugh.  Wait until you’ve been stationed as long as I have in Calcutta, then you’ll——­”

Leonie had turned and was coming up at a gentle trot.

“Gad! isn’t she beautiful?” said the newcomer.

“Yes!  I think that’s really her trouble,” replied Thorne as he moved to meet her.