green, and then to the distant
hills. She has a vague foreshadowing of coming evil. She sees the
oxen yoked together dragging their loads; she wonders if they are
happier after all than mortals like Major Short and herself. Two of
these patient animals are drawing a Burmese public carriage, with a
black boy looking out of the quaint covering, like a little house on
two wheels. They pause to drink in the Irrawaddy; she sighs to think
how sadly they need refreshment. In the thatched huts and tall palms,
Eleanor pictures Copthorne--it rises as a mirage--till Major Short
dispels it by some casual remark. He notices her listlessness, for she
starts as she speaks.

"Forgive me," she says, smiling wanly, "but I was miles away."

"How interesting. May I not follow you? What did you see?"

"I conjured up a farm-house and green English lanes, gold cornfields,
rustic reapers, and honest workers. They were getting in the harvest."

Captain Stevenson's cheery voice, and Quinton's musical laugh
interrupts the conversation as they join Eleanor and Major Short.

"It is time we were making tracks. What do you say, Short?"

"I suppose so, but it is always hard to tear oneself away from pleasant
companions."

"When shall we meet again?" asks Eleanor gaily. "Can't we arrange a
day next week? Ride over in the cool of the morning to breakfast."

"Thanks--delighted. There is a peculiar fascination in your charming
home and hearty welcome."

Quinton smiles enigmatically, as he watches them ride away.

Eleanor slips her hand in his.

"You seem very merry to-day," she says. "They quite enlivened us,
didn't they, Carol?"

"Yes; it certainly makes a difference having somebody to speak to.
Don't you notice it, dear?"

He looks down at her steadfastly, and for the moment Eleanor's
expression turns the unscrupulous man dizzy with a vague sensation
nearly approaching regret.

He sees in her eyes the overflowing of a heart; whose passionate
adoration amounts to idolatry.

He is touched and softened. He presses her lips, though they no longer
thrill him, and she in her mute worship cannot define the change.

Her love, he thinks, so freely given, so utterly beyond control, is
after all a pitiable spectacle.

He scrutinises her fair face critically; it seems insipid to him now.
Its pale spirituality, which once set his brain on fire, appears
characterless. The classical features, exquisitely moulded, lack
power. The