however, she had to sacrifice it to the girl’s imperturbable silence.  She chose an intimate and a private hour and shut the door carefully upon herself and her captain, but she had not at all decided, when she sat down on the edge of the bed, what complexion to give to the matter, nor had she a very definite idea, when she got up again, of what complexion she had given it.  Laura, from the first word, had upset her by an intense eagerness, a determination not to lose a syllable.  Captain Filbert insisted upon hearing all before she would acknowledge anything; she hung upon the sentences Mrs. Sand repeated, and joined them together as if they were parts of a puzzle; she finally had possession of the conversation much as I have already written it down.  As Mrs. Sand afterward told her husband, Miss Filbert sat there growing whiter and whiter, more and more worked up, and it was impossible to take any comfort in talking to her.  It seemed as if she, the Ensign, might save herself the trouble of giving an opinion one way or the other, and not a thing could she get the girl to say except that it was true enough that the gentleman wanted to marry her, and she was ashamed of having let it go so far.  But she would never do it—­never.  She declared she would write to this Mr. Arnold and thank him, and ask him to pray for her, “and she as much as ordered me to go and do the same,” concluded Mrs. Sand with an inflection which made its own comment upon such a subversion of discipline.

Stephen, under uncomfortable compulsion, sent Laura’s letter—­she did write—­to Lindsay.  “I cannot allow you to be in the dark about what I am doing in the matter,” he explained; “though if I had not this necessity for writing you might reasonably complain of an intrusive and impertinent letter.  But I must let you know that she has appealed to me, and that as far as I can I will help her.”

Duff read both communications—­Laura’s to the priest was brief and very technical—­between the business quarters of Ralli Brothers and the Delhi and London Bank, with his feet in the opposite seat of his office-gharry and his forehead puckered by an immediate calculation forward in rupee paper.  His irritation spoiled his transaction—­there was a distinct edge in the manager’s manner when they parted, and it was perhaps a pardonable weakness that led him to dash in blue pencil across the page covered with Arnold’s minute handwriting, “Then you have done with pasty compromises—­you have gone over to the Jesuits.  I congratulate you,” and re-addressed the envelope to College street.  The brown tide of the crowd brought him an instant messenger, and he stood in the doorway for a moment afterwards frowning upon the yellow turbans that swung along in the sunlight against the white wall opposite, across the narrow commercial road.  The flame of his indignation set forth his features with definiteness and relief, consuming altogether the soft amused bien-etre which was nearly