ntured to question me about our relation to one
another: "Miss Wade is your cousin, I suppose?" she suggested.

"Oh, dear, no," I answered, with a glassy smile. "We are not connected
in any way."

"But you are travelling together!"

"Merely as you and I are travelling together--fellow-passengers on the
same steamer."

"Still, you have met before."

"Yes, certainly. Miss Wade was a nurse at St. Nathaniel's, in London,
where I was one of the house doctors. When I came on board at Cape Town,
after some months in South Africa, I found she was going by the same
steamer to India." Which was literally true. To have explained the rest
would have been impossible, at least to anyone who did not know the
whole of Hilda's history.

"And what are you both going to do when you get to India?"

"Really, Lady Meadowcroft," I said, severely, "I have not asked Miss
Wade what she is going to do. If you inquire of her point-blank, as you
have inquired of me, I dare say she will tell you. For myself, I am just
a globe-trotter, amusing myself. I only want to have a look round at
India."

"Then you are not going out to take an appointment?"

"By George, Emmie," the burly Yorkshireman put in, with an air of
annoyance, "you are cross-questioning Dr. Cumberledge; nowt less than
cross-questioning him!"

I waited a second. "No," I answered, slowly. "I have not been practising
of late. I am looking about me. I travel for enjoyment."

That made her think better of me. She was of the kind, indeed, who think
better of a man if they believe him to be idle.

She dawdled about all day on deck chairs, herself seldom even reading;
and she was eager now to drag Hilda into conversation. Hilda resisted;
she had found a volume in the library which immensely interested her.

"What ARE you reading, Miss Wade?" Lady Meadowcroft cried at last, quite
savagely. It made her angry to see anybody else pleased and occupied
when she herself was listless.

"A delightful book!" Hilda answered. "The Buddhist Praying Wheel, by
William Simpson."

Lady Meadowcroft took it from her and turned the pages over with a
languid air. "Looks awfully dull!" she observed, with a faint smile, at
last, returning it.

"It's charming," Hilda retorted, glancing at one of the illustrations.
"It explains so much. It shows one why one turns round one's chair at
cards for luck; and why, when a church is consecrated, the bishop walks
three times about it sunwise."

"Our Bisho