born."

"I am sure she is, my lady. I've read in books about the faithfulness of
black people. They say they're more faithful than white ones."

"Not more faithful than _some_ white ones," said Lady Walderhurst with
her good smile. "Ameerah is not more faithful than you, I'm very sure."

"Oh, my lady!" ejaculated Jane, turning red with pleasure. "I do hope
not. I shouldn't like to think she could be."

In fact the tropic suggestion of the Ayah's personality had warmed the
imagination of the servants' hall, and there had been much talk of many
things, of the Osborns as well as of their servants, and thrilling
stories of East Indian life had been related by Walderhurst's man, who
was a travelled person. Captain Osborn had good sport on these days, and
sport was the thing he best loved. He was of the breed of man who can
fish, hunt, or shoot all day, eat robust meals and sleep heavily all
night; who can do this every day of a year, and in so doing reach his
highest point of desire in existence. He knew no other aspirations in
life than such as the fortunes of a man like Walderhurst could put him
in possession of. Nature herself had built him after the model of the
primeval type of English country land-owner. India with her blasting and
stifling hot seasons and her steaming rains gave him nothing that he
desired, and filled him with revolt against Fate every hour of his life.
His sanguine body loathed and grew restive under heat. At The Kennel
Farm, when he sprang out of his bed in the fresh sweetness of the
morning and plunged into his tub, he drew every breath with a physical
rapture. The air which swept in through the diamond-paned, ivy-hung
casements was a joy.

"Good Lord!" he would cry out to Hester through her half-opened door,
"what mornings! how a man _lives_ and feels the blood rushing through
his veins! Rain or shine, it's all the same to me. I can't stay indoors.
Just to tramp through wet or dry heather, or under dripping or shining
trees, is enough. How can one believe one has ever lain sweating with
one's tongue lolling out, and listened to the whining creak of the
punkah through nights too deadly hot to sleep in! It's like remembering
hell while one lives in Paradise."

"We shan't live in Paradise long," Hester said once with some
bitterness. "Hell is waiting for us."

"Damn it! don't remind a man. There are times when I don't believe it."
He almost snarled the answer. It was true that his habit was to