to feel square with you again!"

III.

In a third-floor sitting-room, facing east, breakfast was laid for
two. Every item of the meal bespoke furnished apartments; and even the
May sunshine, flooding the place, failed to beautify the shabby carpet
and furniture, the inevitable oleographs and the family groups that
shared the mantelpiece with pipes, pouches, and a tin of tobacco. A
hanging bookcase held some military books, a couple of novels, and a
volume of Browning--the property of Paul. After Bellagio--Piccadilly;
and their year abroad constrained them to economy at home.

Theo Desmond sauntering in, scanned every detail with fastidious
distaste. To-day, for the first time, a great longing possessed him
for the airy ramshackle bungalows of the Frontier he loved, for the
trumpet-call to "stables," for a sight of his squadron and the feel of
a saddle between his knees.

His wandering gaze lighted on a letter near Paul's place. The address
was in Honor's handwriting. He stood a moment regarding it, then
turned sharply away and went over to the window. There he remained,
seemingly absorbed in the varied traffic of Piccadilly, actually
consumed by such jealousy as he had never suffered while he imagined
that her heart was given to his friend.

For Paul's sake he could and would endure all things; but this
detestable unknown who had won her and could not claim her was quite
another affair. There could be no thought of standing aside on his
account. It was simply a question of Honor herself. She was not the
woman lightly to withdraw her love, once given. And yet--in a
year--who could tell? Love, like the spirit, bloweth where it listeth;
and Paul's failure did not of necessity predicate his own. For all her
sudden bewildering reserves, she had drawn very near to him in those
last terrible weeks at Kohat; and now--now--if he could believe there
was the veriest ghost of a chance--!

The mere possibility set heart and blood in a tumult; a tumult checked
ruthlessly by the thought that if Honor Meredith was not the woman to
change lightly, still less was she the woman to approach with that
confession which, at all hazards, he was bound to make. Speaking of it
to Paul had cost him such an effort as he ached to remember. Speaking
of it to her seemed a thing inconceivable. And yet--in that case--what
hope of escape from this unholy tangle, from this fury of jealousy
that had stabbed his manhood broad awake at last?