to his state of mind.

He was considered a hard man in his regiment, but he was known to be a
splendid soldier, and chiefly for that reason he was respected rather
than disliked. But the kindest critic could not have called him either
popular or attractive. And the news of his marriage in England had
fallen like a thunderbolt upon his Indian acquaintances, for he had long
ago come to be regarded among them as the last man in the world to
commit such a folly.

The full extent thereof had not been apparent till his return to his
regiment, accompanied by his bride, and then as one man the whole mess
had risen and condemned him in no measured terms, for the bride, with
all her entrancing beauty, her vivacity, her charm, was certainly a
startling contrast to the man who had wedded her--a contrast so sharp as
to be almost painful to the onlookers.

She herself, however, seemed to be wholly unaware of any incongruity.
Perhaps she had not seen enough of the world to feel it, or perhaps she
was wilfully blind to the things she did not desire to see.

In any case her face, as she lay back in the carriage by her husband's
side, expressed only the most complete contentment.

"Are you tired, Eustace?" she asked, as he did not hasten to reply to
her first question.

"No," he answered, "not tired; but glad to be going back."

"You've been bored," she said quickly. "What a frightful pity! Why did
you stay so long?"

Again he paused before replying, and she drummed on his knee with her
fingers with slight impatience.

"I had a notion," he said, in his quiet, unhurried tones, "that my wife
would have considered it rather hard lines to be dragged away while
there was a single man left to dance with."

The bride snatched her hand from his knee with a swiftness of action
that could hardly be mistaken. He might have been speaking in fun, but,
even so, it was an ugly jest. More probably he had meant the sting that
his words conveyed, for, owing to a delicate knee-cap that had once been
splintered by a bullet and still at times gave him trouble, Major Tudor
was a non-dancer. Whatever his meaning, the remark came upon her flushed
triumph like the icy chill before the dawn, dispelling dreams.

"I am sorry," she said, with all the haste of youth, "that you
sacrificed yourself to please me. I hope you will not do so again. Now
that I am married, I do not need a chaperon. I could quite well return
alone."

It was childishly spoken,