ssured.

When at length he leaned his elbows on the table and said, "Tell me all
about it," she was ready.

She leaned towards him, and dropped her voice.

"You know Mr. Dinghra Singh? I'm sure you do. Every one does."

"Yes, I know him. They call him Nana Sahib at the clubs."

She shuddered again.

"I used to like him rather. He has a wicked sort of fascination, you
know. But I loathe him now; I abhor him. And--I am terrified at him."

She stopped. Rivington said nothing. There was not much expression in
his eyes. Without seeming to scan very closely, they rested on her face.

After a moment, in a whisper, she continued:

"He follows me about perpetually. I meet him everywhere. He looks at me
with horrid eyes. I know, without seeing, the instant he comes into the
room."

She paused. Rivington still said nothing.

"He is very rich, you know," she went on, with an effort. "He will be
Rajah of Ferosha some day. And, of course, every one is very nice to him
in consequence. I never was that. Don't think it! But I used to laugh at
him. It's my way. Most men don't like it. No Englishmen do that I know
of. But he--this man--is, somehow, different from every one else.
And--can you believe it?--he is literally stalking me. He sends me
presents--exquisite things, jewellery, that my mother won't let me
return. I asked him not to once, and he laughed in my face. He has a
horrible laugh. He is half-English, too. I believe that makes him worse.
If he were an out-and-out native he wouldn't be quite so revolting. Of
course, I see my mother's point of view. Naturally, she would like me to
be a princess, and, as she says, I can't pick and choose. Which is true,
you know," she put in quaintly, "for men don't like me as a rule; at
least, not the marrying sort. I rather think I'm not the marrying sort
myself. I've never been in love, never once. But I couldn't--I could
not--marry Dinghra. But it's no good telling him so. The cooler I am to
him the hotter he seems to get, till--till I'm beginning to wonder how I
can possibly get away."

The note of distress sounded again in her voice. Very quietly, as though
in answer to it, Rivington reached out a hand and laid it over hers.

But his eyes never varied as he said:

"Won't you finish?"

She bent her head.

"You'll think me foolish to be so easily scared," she said, a slight
catch in her voice. "Most women manage to take care of themselves. I
ought to be able to."

"Pleas