the heart, was in all respects a man among men. He appealed to
the artist in her by a natural dignity and distinction of person and
character, by a suggestion of volcanic forces warring with the ascetic
strain in him yet steadfastly controlled; and above all, by a superb
simplicity and unconsciousness of self, that draws introspective
temperaments as infallibly as the moon draws the sea.

And apart from her joy in him, she was keenly alive to her
surroundings; to the practical work going on about her; to the
stimulating contact with a new type, a new atmosphere. At first she
saw little of outsiders, or indeed of any one besides her husband.
John Meredith came over every day; Wyndham, though still living in the
house, had gone back to duty; while Desmond--after one day of complete
collapse, when Frank revenged herself on him by monopolising Honor--had
taken up his work again with heightened zest, and devoted every spare
hour to his wife. But the four met at meals, and in the evening, when
Quita kept all three men alert and amused by her intelligent
questionings, her frank interest in every detail of her new profession,
as it pleased her to call it.

Before the week was out her pocket note-book contained a small
portrait-gallery of studies in pencil and water-colour. She sketched
Desmond's old Sikh Ressaldar, with his finely carved features, deep
eyes, and vast lop-sided blue and gold turban; and Desmond himself in
the white uniform and long boots, which so greatly pleased her,
occupied several pages.

Mounted on Shaitan's successor, she rode down with him twice to early
parade; and sat entranced through the whole proceeding; watching the
long lines of men and horses sweeping across the open plain, wheeling,
retiring, advancing, changing formation with exquisite and
instantaneous precision, in response to Meredith's brisk words of
command; while massed lance-heads and steel shoulder-chains flashed and
winked in the level light.

It was her first experience of meeting soldiers in the mass, on their
own ground, and the man who has faced death and dealt it out to others
appeals irresistibly to the fundamental barbaric in women. To this
fascination, Quita added the artist's reverence for the men who 'do
things,' as opposed to the men who record or express them.

She enlarged on the subject at breakfast one morning, in her usual
direct fashion; but Desmond would have none of it.

"Remember, Quita," said he, "that