Mrs. Boulte was
putting some flowers into a vase. There is a pretence of civilisation
even in Kashima.

'Little woman,' said Boulte quietly, 'do you care for me?'

'Immensely,' said she, with a laugh. 'Can you ask it?'

'But I'm serious,' said Boulte. 'Do you care for me?'

Mrs. Boulte dropped the flowers, and turned round quickly. 'Do you want
an honest answer?'

'Ye-es, I've asked for it.'

Mrs. Boulte spoke in a low, even voice for five minutes, very
distinctly, that there might be no misunderstanding her meaning. When
Samson broke the pillars of Gaza, he did a little thing, and one not to
be compared to the deliberate pulling down of a woman's homestead about
her own ears. There was no wise female friend to advise Mrs. Boulte,
the singularly cautious wife, to hold her hand. She struck at Boulte's
heart, because her own was sick with suspicion of Kurrell, and worn out
with the long strain of watching alone through the Rains. There was
no plan or purpose in her speaking. The sentences made themselves; and
Boulte listened, leaning against the door-post with his hands in his
pockets. When all was over, and Mrs. Boulte began to breathe through her
nose before breaking out into tears, he laughed and stared straight in
front of him at the Dosehri hills.

'Is that all?' he said. 'Thanks, I only wanted to know, you know.'

'What are you going to do?' said the woman, between her sobs.

'Do! Nothing. What should I do? Kill Kurrell, or send you Home, or
apply for leave to get a divorce? It's two days' treck into Narkarra.' He
laughed again and went on: 'I'll tell you what you can do. You can ask
Kurrell to dinner tomorrow no, on Thursday, that will allow you time to
pack and you can bolt with him. I give you my word I won't follow.'

He took up his helmet and went out of the room, and Mrs. Boulte sat till
the moonlight streaked the floor, thinking and thinking and thinking.
She had done her best upon the spur of the moment to pull the house
down; but it would not fall. Moreover, she could not understand her
husband, and she was afraid. Then the folly of her useless truthfulness
struck her, and she was ashamed to write to Kurrell, saying, 'I have
gone mad and told everything. My husband says that I am free to elope
with you. Get a dek for Thursday, and we will fly after dinner.' There
was a cold-bloodedness about that procedure which did not appeal to her.
So she sat still in her own house and thought.

At dinner-ti