riosity, drawing
my chair a little nearer hers, and speaking with an eagerness which I,
in vain, try to stifle.

"Yes," smiling sweetly, "in India."

"He was there a long time," continue I, communicatively.

"Yes."

(Well, she _is_ baffling! when she does not say "yes" affirmatively, she
says it interrogatively.)

"All the same he did not like it," I go on, with amicable volubility;
"but I dare say you know that. They say--" (reddening as I feel,
perceptibly, and nervously twisting my pocket-handkerchief round my
fingers)--"that people are so sociable in India: now, I dare say you saw
a good deal of him."

"Yes; we met several times."

She is smiling again. There is not a shade of hesitation or unreadiness
in her low voice, nor does the faintest tinge of color stain the fine
pallor of her cheeks.

(It _must_ have been a lie!)

"_Your_ husband, too, is out--" I pause; not sure of the locality, but
she does not help me, so I add lamely, "_somewhere_, is not he?"

"He is in the West Indies."

"In the West Indies!" cry I, with animation, drawing my chair yet a
little nearer hers, and feeling positively friendly; "why, that is where
_mine_ is too!"

"Yes?"

"We are companions in misfortune," cry I, heartily; "we must keep up
each other's spirits, must not we?"

Another smile, but no verbal answer.

A noise of feet coming across the hall--of manly whistling makes itself
heard. The door opens and Algy enters. It is clear that he is unaware of
there being any stranger present, for his hat is on his head, his hands
are in his pockets, and he only stops whistling to observe:

"Well, Nancy! any more aborigines?" then he breaks suddenly off, and we
all grow red--he himself beaming of as lively a scarlet as the new tunic
that he tried on last night. I make a hurried and confused presentation,
in which I manage to slur over into unintelligibility and utter
doubtfulness the names of the two people made known to one another.

"One more aborigine, you see!" says Mrs. Huntley, to my surprise--after
the experience I have had of her fine taste in monosyllables--beginning
the conversation. I look at her with a little wonder. Her voice is quite
as low as ever, but there is an accent of playfulness in it; and on her
face a sparkle of _esprit_, whose possible existence I had not
conjectured. Certainly, she showed no symptom of playfulness or _esprit_
during our late talk. I have yet to learn that to some women, the
pres