e Seven Sisters--noisy, impudent, clamorous, sharp-eyed thieves that
throng the compounds like sparrows, that hop in through the open window
and steal a slice of toast from beside the cup of tea at the bedside.

He mounted the waiting Cabuli pony and rode to the Residency. He had
much to talk over with Hodson in the light of all that had transpired
in the last two days, and, also, he had a hope that Elizabeth would be
possessed of an after-the-storm calm, would greet him, and somehow give
him a moral sustaining against his lapse in heart loyalty. Mentally he
didn't label his feeling toward Elizabeth love. Toward her it had been
largely a matter of drifting, undoubted giving in to suasion, more of
association than what was said. She had class; she was intellectual;
there was no doubt about her wit--it was like a well-cut diamond,
sparkling, brilliant--no warmth. When Barlow reflected, jogging along
on the Cabuli, that he probably did not love Elizabeth, picturing the
passion as typified by Romeo and Juliet as instance, he suddenly asked
himself: "By Jove! and does anybody except the pater love Elizabeth?"
He was doubtful if anybody did. All the servants held her in esteem,
for she was just, and not niggardly; but hers was certainly not a
disposition to cause spontaneous affection. Perhaps the word admirable
epitomised Elizabeth all round. But he felt that he needed a sort of
Christian Science sustaining, as it were, in this sensuous
drifting--something to make his slipping appear more obnoxious.

As he rode up to the verandah of the Residency he saw Elizabeth cutting
flowers, probably to decorate the breakfast table. That was like
Elizabeth; instead of leaving it to the _mahli_ (gardener), with the
butler to festoon the table, she was doing it herself. It was an
occupation akin to water-colour painting or lace work, just the sort of
thing to find Elizabeth at--typical.

Barlow was possessed of a hopeful fancy that perhaps she had not ridden
expecting that he would call on the Resident; but as always with the
Resident's daughter he could deduct nothing from her manner. She
nodded pleasantly, looking up, a gloved hand full of roses; and, as he
slipped from the saddle, relinquishing the horse to the _syce_, she
fell in beside him as far as the verandah, where they stood talking
desultory stuff; the morning sun on the pink and white oleanders, the
curious snake-like mottling of the croton leaves, and the song of