, and had to be unearthed by
Nick, who declared himself scandalized to find anyone still up at such
an immoral hour.

Olga was standing with Noel, dressed for departure, waiting to go, when
Hunt-Goring sauntered up to her.

"Well, Miss Ratcliffe," he said conversationally, "and how do you like
India?"

It was the first time he had deliberately accosted her. She glanced up
at him sharply, and made a slight, instinctive movement away from him.
At once, albeit almost imperceptibly, Noel moved a little nearer to her.
She was conscious of his intention to protect, and threw him a brief
smile as she made reply.

"I am enjoying it very much."

"Really!" said Hunt-Goring. "And you are engaged to be married, I hear?"

Olga did not instantly reply. It was Noel who answered shortly: "Yes,
to my brother. No objection, I suppose?"

It was aggressively spoken. Noel had quite obviously taken a dislike to
the newcomer, a sentiment which Olga knew to be instantly reciprocated
by the calm fashion in which Hunt-Goring ignored his intervention.

She found him waiting markedly for her reply, and braced herself to
enter the arena. "Is it news to you?" she asked coldly.

He laughed his soft, hateful laugh. "Well, scarcely, since you,
yourself, informed me of the approaching event some months before it
took place."

Noel made a slight gesture of surprise, and the colour rose in a hot
wave to Olga's face; but she looked steadily at Hunt-Goring and said
nothing.

He went on, smoothly satirical. "I used to think the odds were in favour
of Miss Campion, you know. You will pardon me for saying that I don't
think there are many girls who could have cut her out."

Olga's face froze to a marble immobility. "There was no question of
that," she said.

"No?" Hunt-Goring's urbanity scarcely covered his incredulity. "I
fancied she took the opposite view. Well, well, the poor girl is dead
and out of the running. I consider Max Wyndham is a very lucky man."

He spoke with significance and Noel's eyes, jealously watching Olga's
face, saw her flinch ever so slightly. A hot wave of anger rose within
him; his hands clenched. He turned upon Hunt-Goring.

"If you have anything offensive to say," he said, in a furious
undertone, "say it to me, you damned coward!"

Hunt-Goring looked at him at last. "I beg your pardon?" he said.

Noel was on the verge of repeating his remark when, quick as a flash,
Olga turned and caught his arm.

"Noel, plea