roubled over Dyan; and he has much influence. There are
so many now in India dragged two ways."

Nevil sighed again. "Bless the boy! It's an undeniable risk. And what
the family will say to our Midsummer madness, God knows! Jane can be
trusted to make the deuce of a row. And we can't even smooth matters by
telling her of our private precaution----"

"No--not one little _word_."

Lilamani sat upright, a gleam of primitive hate in her eyes.

Nevil smiled, in spite of secret dismay. "You implacable little sinner!
Can't you ever forgive her like a Christian?"

"No--not ever." The tense quiet of her tone carried conviction. "Not
only far-off things, I can never forget--nearly killing me and--and Roy.
But because she is always stabbing at me with sharp words and ugly
thoughts. She cannot ever forgive that I am here--that I make you happy,
which she could not believe. She is angry to be put in the wrong by mere
Hindu wife----" She paused in her vehement rush of speech: saw the look
in Nevil's face that recalled an earlier day; and anger vanished like a
light blown out. "King of me--I am sorry. Only--it is true. And _she_ is
Christian born. But I--down in my deepest places I am still--Rajputni.
Just the same as after twenty-three years of English wife, I am still in
my heart--like the 'Queen who stood erect!'"

On the word she rose and confronted him, smiling into his troubled eyes;
grace of girlhood and dignity of womanhood adorably mingled in her pose.

"Who was she?" Nevil asked, willingly lured from thoughts of Jane.

"Careless one! Have you forgotten the story of my Wonder-Woman--how a
King, loving his Queen with all his soul, bowed himself in ecstasy, and
'took the dust off her feet' in presence of other wives who, from
jealousy, cried: 'Shameless one, lift up the hands of the King to your
head.' But the Queen stood erect, smiling gladly. 'Not so: for both feet
and head are my Lord's. Can I have aught that is mine?'"

The swiftness of transition, the laughing tenderness of her eyes so
moved him--and so potent in her was the magical essence of
womanhood--that he, Sir Nevil Sinclair, Baronet, of Bramleigh Beeches,
came near to taking the dust of her feet in very deed.

CHAPTER VI.

"Qui n'accepte pas le regret, n'accepte pas la vie."

Nevil's fears were justified to the full. Lady Roscoe was one of those
exasperating people of whom one can predict, almost to a word, a look,
what their attitude wi