epitomised Elizabeth all round. But he felt that he needed a sort of
Christian Science sustaining, as it were, in this sensuous
drifting--something to make his slipping appear more obnoxious.

As he rode up to the verandah of the Residency he saw Elizabeth cutting
flowers, probably to decorate the breakfast table. That was like
Elizabeth; instead of leaving it to the _mahli_ (gardener), with the
butler to festoon the table, she was doing it herself. It was an
occupation akin to water-colour painting or lace work, just the sort of
thing to find Elizabeth at--typical.

Barlow was possessed of a hopeful fancy that perhaps she had not ridden
expecting that he would call on the Resident; but as always with the
Resident's daughter he could deduct nothing from her manner. She
nodded pleasantly, looking up, a gloved hand full of roses; and, as he
slipped from the saddle, relinquishing the horse to the _syce_, she
fell in beside him as far as the verandah, where they stood talking
desultory stuff; the morning sun on the pink and white oleanders, the
curious snake-like mottling of the croton leaves, and the song of a
_dhyal_ that, high in a tamarind, was bubbling liquid notes of joy.

"The Indian robin red-breast makes one homesick," Elizabeth said.

"Home--", but the girl put a quick hand on his arm checking him; the
action was absolutely like Elizabeth, imperious. A small, long-tailed,
brown-breasted bird had darted across the compound to a mango tree from
where he warbled a love song as sweet and rich toned as the evensong of
a nightingale.

The _dhyal_, as if feeling defeat in the sweeter carol of his rival,