without seeing the Ridge. Can't things wait in
London?"

"Yes, things can, but people won't," answered Thresk, and Mrs. Carruthers
was genuinely distressed that he should depart from India without a
single journey in a train.

"I can't help it," he said, smiling back into her mournful eyes. "Apart
from my work, Parliament meets early in February."

"Oh, to be sure, you are in Parliament," she exclaimed. "I had
forgotten." She shook her fair head in wonder at the industry of
her visitor. "I can't think how you manage it all. Oh, you must
need a holiday."

Thresk laughed.

"I am thirty-six, so I have a year or two still in front of me before I
have the right to break down. I'll save up my holidays for my old age."

"But you are not married," cried Mrs. Carruthers. "You can't do that. You
can't grow comfortably old unless you're married. You will want to work
then to get through the time. You had better take your holidays now."

"Very well. I shall have twelve days upon the steamer. When does it go?"
asked Thresk as he rose from his chair.

"On Friday, and this is Monday," said Mrs. Carruthers. "You certainly
haven't much time to go anywhere, have you?"

"No," replied Thresk, and Mrs. Carruthers saw his face quicken suddenly
to surprise. He actually caught his breath; he stared, no longer aware of
her presence in the room. He was looking over her head towards the grand
piano which stood behind her chair; and she began to run over in her mind
the various ornaments which encumbered it. A piece of Indian drapery
covered the top and on the drapery stood a little group of Dresden China
figures, a crystal cigarette-box, some knick-knacks and half-a-dozen
photographs in silver frames. It must be one of those photographs, she
decided, which had caught his eye, which had done more than catch his
eye. For she was looking up at Thresk's face all this while, and the
surprise had gone from it. It seemed to her that he was moved.

"You have the portrait of a friend of mine there," he said, and he
crossed the room to the piano.

Mrs. Carruthers turned round.

"Oh, Stella Ballantyne!" she cried. "Do you know her, Mr. Thresk?"

"Ballantyne?" said Thresk. For a moment or two he was silent. Then he
asked: "She is married then?"

"Yes, didn't you know? She has been married for a long time."

"It's a long time since I have heard of her," said Thresk. He looked
again at the photograph.

"When was this taken?"

"A few mont