sahibs--gad! he knew several, one a Deputy Commissioner. A beautiful
little Kashmiri girl had nursed him through cholera when even his own
servants had fled. The Kashmiri, who had the dainty flower-like
sweetness of a Japanese maid, and practically the same code, had lived
in his protection before this. After the nursing incident he had
married her, with benefit of clergy, and the result had been hell, a
living suicide, ostracism. A good officer, he still remained Deputy
Commissioner, the highest official of the district, but the social
excellence was wiped out--he was a pariah, an outcast. And the girl,
who now could not remain just a native, could not attain to the dignity
of a Deputy-Commissioner Memsahib.

Barlow knew several such. Of course of drifters he knew also, the
white inland beach-combers--men who had come out to India to fill
subordinate positions in the telegraph, or the railroad, or mills; and,
as they sloughed off European caste, and possessed of the eternal
longing for woman companionship, had married natives. Barlow shuddered
at mentally rehearsed visions of the degradation. Thus everything
logical was on that side of the ledger--all against the Gulab. On the
other side was the fierce compelling fascination that the girl held for
him.

Yes, at Mandhatta they would both sacrifice to the gods. Curiously
Elizabeth stood in the computation a cipher; probably he would marry
her, but the escapement from disaster, from wreck, would not be because
of any moral sustaining from her, any invisible thread of love binding
him to the daughter of the Resident. He knew that until he parted from
Bootea at Mandhatta his soul would be torn by a strife that was
foolish, contemptible, that should never have originated.