mith. At first she was hurt. He was her friend,
not Ida's. But he never sought to be alone with her, never asked her to
ride with him, or do anything that would take her away from the others.

Then she grew piqued. If he did not value her society he should see that
others did, and she suddenly grew more gracious to Charlesworth, who seemed
to sense in Dermot a more dangerous rival than was Melville or any of the
others and began to be more openly devoted and to put more meaning into his
intentions.

One hateful night when she had been with Charlesworth to a private dance to
which Ida had refused to go, dining instead with Dermot, who had no
invitation to the affair, the blow fell. After her return to the hotel her
treacherous friend had crept into her room, weeping and imploring her
sympathy. Too late, she sobbed on Noreen's shoulder, she had found her
soul-mate, the man destined for her through the past aeons, the one man who
could make her happy and whose existence she alone could complete. Why had
she met Dermot too late? Why was she tied to a clod, mated to a clown? Why
were two lives to be wrecked?

As Noreen listened amazed an icy hand seemed to clutch her shrinking heart.
Was this true? Did Dermot really care for Ida? Could the man whom she had
revered as a white-souled knight be base enough to make love to another
man's wife?

Then the demon of jealousy poisoned her soul. She got the weeping Ida back
to her bed, and sat in her own dark room until the dawn came, her brain in
a whirl, her heart filled with a fierce hatred of Dermot. And when next
day, his business finished, he had to leave Darjeeling, she made a point of
absenting herself with Charlesworth from the hotel at the time when Dermot
had arranged to come to say good-bye.

But long before the train in which he travelled down to the Plains was
half-way to Siliguri, the girl lay on her bed, her face buried in her
pillow, her body shaken with silent but convulsive sobs.

And Dermot stared out into the thick mist that shrouded the mountains and
enfolded his downward-slipping train and wondered if his one-time little
friend of the forest would be happy in the new life that, according to her
bosom-friend and confidant, Mrs. Smith, would open to her as Charlesworth's
wife as soon as she spoke the word that was trembling on her lips.

And he sighed unconsciously. Then he frowned as the distasteful memory
recurred to him of the previous night, when a wanton