the most frequent cause of love--for one who falls headlong
into that passion fifty drift into it. In the isolation of that solitary
spot on the face of the giant mountains, Kevin Dermot and Noreen Daleham
drew nearer to each other in their few days together there than they ever
would have done in as many months of London life. As they climbed the hills
or sat side by side on the Mess verandah and looked down on the leagues of
forest and plain spread out like a map at their feet, they were apt to
forget that they were not alone in the world.

The more Dermot saw of Noreen, the more he was attracted by her naturalness
and her unconscious charm of manner. He liked her bright and happy
disposition, full of the joy of living. On her side Noreen at first hardly
recognised the quiet-mannered, courteous man that she had first known in
the smart, keen, and intelligent soldier such as she found Dermot to be in
his own surroundings. Yet she was glad to have seen him in his little world
and delighted to watch him with his Indian officers and sepoys, whose
liking and respect for him were so evident.

When she was alone her thoughts were all of him. As she lay at night
half-dreaming on his little camp-bed in his bare room she wondered what
his life had been. And, to a woman, the inevitable question arose in her
mind: Had he ever loved or was he now in love with someone? It seemed to
her that any woman should be proud to win the love of such a man. Was
there one? What sort of girl would he admire, she wondered. She had
noticed that in their talks he had never mentioned any of her sex or
given her a clue to his likes and dislikes. She knew little of men. Her
brother was the only one of whose inner life and ideas she had any
knowledge, and he was no help to her understanding of Dermot.

It never occurred to Noreen that there was anything unusual in her interest
in this new friend, nor did she suspect that that interest was perilously
akin to a deeper feeling. All she knew was that she liked him and was
content to be near him. She had not reached the stage of being miserable
out of his presence. The dawn of a woman's love is the happiest time in its
story. There is no certain realisation of the truth to startle, perhaps
affright, her, no doubts to depress her, no jealous fears to torture her
heart--only a vague, delicious feeling of gladness, a pleasant rose-tinted
glow to brighten life and warm her heart. The fierce, devouring flames