stern India.

Still smiling Violet stumbled up the unlighted stairs and reached her
sitting-room. When she turned up the lamp a letter lying on the table
caught her eyes. She picked it up indifferently; but when she saw that
it bore the handwriting of one of her Calcutta cousins and the
Darjeeling postmark she tore it open eagerly and ran her eye rapidly
down the pages. She came to the lines:

"I have seen the man you asked me about. He is always with a girl
called Benson, rather a pretty little thing. She is popular with all
the men; but Mr. Wargrave seems to be the favourite. They are
staying at the same hotel; and everyone says they are engaged."

Then the writer went on to talk of family matters. But Violet read no
more. Her eyes flamed with anger as she crumpled the paper up, flung it
on the floor and stamped it under foot. She paced the room angrily,
tearing the lace handkerchief she held in her hands to shreds. This,
then, was Frank's loyalty to her, this was how he consoled himself for
her absence. With this chit of a girl, with whom he probably laughed at
her, Violet's readiness to give up reputation, good fame, home, for him.
She almost sobbed with jealous rage at the idea. She forgot her own
infidelities and want of remembrance and felt herself to be a deceived
and much-abused woman. But she would not bear such treatment meekly.
Frank was hers; no other woman had a right to him, should ever have him.
She was resolved on that. She stopped and, picking up the letter,
smoothed it out and re-read it. Then, frowning, she passed into her
bedroom and tore off her costume. Not for an instant did she sleep
during the remainder of the night, but tossed on her bed, revolving
plans of vengeance.

Next day she was seated in the train on her way to Darjeeling, a
journey that would take days. She had telegraphed fruitlessly for a room
at the Oriental Hotel at which she knew from his letters that Frank was
staying; but she had secured one at the larger Eastern Palace where her
Calcutta relatives were residing. Only on the second day of her journey
did she wire to Wargrave, bidding him meet her on her arrival.

As the train carried her across India her heart was still filled with
anger, jealousy and almost hate of the man whom she had favoured above
all others and who spurned her, dared to be faithless to her, it seemed.
She did not know how much love she had left for him; for his image had
grown dim in t