When Mark Jervis came all eagerness to claim his supper dance from Miss Gordon, he saw at once that something was wrong. The merry smile—her greatest charm—he sought in vain upon her face; her expression was grave, almost stern. She was actually looking at him as if he was an absolute stranger. She knew!

He glanced quickly at her partner, and the mystery was instantly solved. Yes, he recollected the man’s goggling blue eyes. Where had he seen him? Where? The cordial accost—

“Hallo, Jervis! Came out with you in the Victoria!” promptly dispelled his last hope.

“Yes, so you did,” nodding. “Glad to see you here to-night. I suppose you have been globe-trotting, like the rest of us!”

“You have not done much trotting, by all accounts, of late.”

“No, not much,” rather shortly. Then, to Honor, “This is our waltz.”

She gazed at him for an instant in haughty silence, then she answered—

“Yes; but I don’t think I shall dance, thank you.”

“Oh do,” he urged, as the stranger moved off. “Let us have just one dance. After the dance—the deluge! I see you know. We can have that out later on—but don’t let us miss this.”

The young lady was passionately fond of dancing, the floor, the inspiriting waltz, a first-rate partner, proved too tempting—“Yes,” she said to herself, “just one last waltz, and then—the deluge.” Not one word did she utter when they halted for a few seconds. She kept her face purposely averted, and appeared to find an absorbing interest in other people. When they once more launched into the vortex, it appeared to him that she did not dance with her usual buoyancy and light-heartedness. She was as stiff and as rigid as a china doll—apparently she shrank from the support of a millionaire’s arm—his embrace was contamination. At last the waltz was over, every one was streaming out, and they naturally followed the crowd. They passed Mrs. Brande, concealing (she fondly believed) enormous yawns behind a black transparent fan; they passed Mrs. Langrishe, issuing bulletins of Sir Gloster’s condition to several interested matrons. They went through the verandah side by side, down the steps, and were brought up at last by the rustic railing overlooking the gardens and tennis-court. It was a warm moonlight night, bright as day, and breathlessly still. Dozens of other couples were strolling, standing, or sitting about in the open air, even the chaperons had come forth (a new and in some instances fatal departure) to taste the sweets of a June night in the Himalayas.

Before their eyes rose the long range of snows—India’s white crown; beneath them lay the gardens—a jungle of dew-steeped roses, tall lilies, and great shrubs of heliotrope. Balsac declares that perfume reminds more vividly than words; be that as it may, the slightest perfume of heliotrope invariably recalled that scene and hour to Honor Gordon’s memory.

“So I see that it has all come out!” began Jervis, intrepidly, on the principle that the first blow is half the battle, “and that you know.”

“Yes”—turning slowly to face him—“and no thanks to you, Mr. Jervis.”

“Of course you are awfully angry with me. Nearly” (oh, most unfortunate speech!) “as angry as you were with that imp the day you tore up her picture.”

“I am not exactly angry,” she replied with tremulous dignity. “Why should I be angry? I am merely enlightened. I know who is who now. I dare say you found the little game of deceiving every one most entertaining. You seem to have quite a genius for playing a double part.”

“You are awfully rough on me,” he interrupted. “But I suppose I deserve it.”

“Now I have but one character, such as it is, so I cannot reciprocate your surprise. I am merely what you have always seen—a country-bred girl, without fortune, or prospect of one, with a taste for playing the violin, and for speaking out my mind at any cost.”

(Yes, there never was any one less at pains to be on the safe side than this young woman.)

“You are disgusted to find that I am not a poor relation,” he ventured to remark.

“I am. You remember that on this very spot”—touching the railings with her fan—“two months ago, Colonel Sladen, with his usual delicate taste, joked pleasantly about the millionaire, your cousin. You laughed immoderately then. Yes, I remember, you actually shook the railings! And”—with increasing wrath—“you are smiling now. Of course it must be capital fun to take people in so successfully! to be able to laugh openly—as well as in your sleeve.”

“Will you permit me to remind you of one small fact? Do you remember that you turned to me and said, that if I were rich you would never speak to me again? You were offering a premium on poverty.”

“And I repeat that speech here,” she said, once more turning to face him. “Now that I find you are rich”—she caught her breath—“I will never speak to you again.”

“Oh, come, I say, Miss Gordon, you can’t mean that,” he expostulated. “At least you will give me a hearing. Be angry—but be just.”

She made no reply, but began to strip little bits of bark from the rustic railing, to the utter destruction of her gloves.

“Admitted that I am the millionaire, that is merely to accept the nickname; for it is not I, but my uncle, who is wealthy. He made a fortune in trade, you know—Pollitt’s pearl barley—and I am his adopted son. He has brought me up ever since I was ten years old, and has been awfully good to me.”

Here she made an impatient movement, as much as to say, What was Mr. Pollitt’s goodness to her?

He hurried on faster.

“I wanted to see something of the world. I was deadly sick of the routine of English life—hunting, balls, regattas, theatres; and I got my uncle’s consent, with great difficulty, to spend a year in India. I was despatched with a valet, a cargo of kit, and the reputation of millions, with Waring as my guide, companion, and adviser. He is not related to me.”

Honor looked at him with a half ironic smile, as much as to say, “Of course not! I should be surprised if he were.”

“He is Mrs. Pollitt’s brother; and she got him the berth, such as it was,” pursued the young man doggedly.

“Little dreaming how luxurious it would become,” added the young lady sarcastically.

“No, that was quite unpremeditated. When I first landed, I found that I had achieved a celebrity far beyond my wishes. I was supposed to be a Rothschild. I was bothered to death with touts and hawkers and all that sort of thing”—with a constrained laugh. “I saw that I’d have no peace till I got rid of all my extra luggage and the man. The combination branded me as ‘valuable.’ Waring had been in the country before, he knew the language and customs, so I made over my account at the bank into his name. He became paymaster, and we held our tongues—that was all. Waring looks rich, and has a genius for spending and making a splash. Now I have not. My tastes are inexpensive, and I have always told my uncle that nature intended me for a poor man.”

Miss Gordon picked off another piece of bark with elaborate care, and then threw it away with an air of profound disgust.

“Our arrangement worked splendidly, as long as we were merely shooting and moving about; but when we came up here and began to know people, I saw that things were getting rather mixed—that it would not do, that we were carrying the idea too far. I spoke to Waring, and suggested taking the public into our confidence. He treated the matter as a joke, and asked if he should announce it in the Pioneer? I said, I thought that if he told it to one or two people as a dead secret, that it would be amply sufficient. But he would not hear of this, either in jest or earnest. He had, he acknowledged, played first fiddle too long to wish to change parts. He was most urgent that I should leave what he considered ‘well’ alone, and worked himself up into such a frightful state of mind—he put the whole thing so—so—so strongly—that I was obliged to leave matters in statu quo.”

“Obliged!” echoed his fair listener, in a cool, incredulous tone.

“Yes, forced to do so.” (He could not tell her of the reason which had been Waring’s sole alternative.) “He said we had only a short time to put in, that it would make him look such an awful fool, that he had taken the reins to please me, and now I must sit tight to oblige him. In fact—to tell you a secret—that he would be in dreadful financial difficulties. All he wanted was time. If his creditors believed him to be a poor man, they would be down on him like a flock of kites. Two or three months would set him straight. So I yielded. But I made one stipulation; I said I must tell the truth to one person.”

“And that highly honoured person?” she asked, with arched brows.

“Was yourself.”

“Oh, monsieur, c’en est trop!” And she made him a deep inclination.

“Don’t jeer at me, please,” he exclaimed, in a low, sharp voice. “Once I was about to speak, and I was interrupted by the panther. Afterwards that intolerable child took the words out of my mouth, and you scorned them. For once in her life she told you the truth, the whole truth—I do love you.”

There was no tremble or hesitation about these four syllables, but there was considerable amount of trembling about the hand which held a certain white feather fan, resting on the railings. The fan, unaccustomed to such uncertain treatment, slid swiftly away, and fell like a dead white bird into a lily bed below. No one sought it; seconds and sensations were priceless.

“I do love you, better than my own life; but I was afraid to speak, you were so down on money.”

How could he guess at the nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles of certain busy old ladies near Hoyle, who had more than hinted at a speedy wedding and a rich husband, as the result of a trip to India? How could he know of blazing eyes and scarlet cheeks, and of a passionate repudiation of, if not India, at any rate a handsome future partner, and money?

“I meant to have told you to-night, on my honour I did; but with my usual cruel bad luck, that little beggar cut in before me. And you are dead against me, and with some reason, I confess; but you must not say that you will never speak to me again. Come, Miss Gordon, give me another chance.” As she remained obdurately dumb, he continued with an air of quiet determination, “You will give me an answer by the time I have fetched your fan?”

Honor’s anger had as usual cooled. She now began to see things from his point of view, and her indignation immediately transferred itself to Captain Waring. Mr. Jervis had been the tool and catspaw of that unscrupulous free-and-easy gentleman. Yes, she now understood the former’s halting allusions to hunting and polo, his half-uttered sentences, and how he had suddenly paused, stammered, and would evidently have been glad to recall his own words. Once or twice she had caught a glimpse, instantly suppressed, of a slightly peremptory manner, the tone and air of one accustomed to being obeyed. She remembered, too, his easy familiarity with money, his—as she had hitherto considered it—insane generosity.

Meanwhile Mark ran down and picked up the white fan from its lily bed, shook the dew-drops from its delicate feathers, and, as he restored it to its owner, he looked straight into her eyes.

“Honor,” he said, in a low eager voice, “you will let bygones be bygones, and forgive me, won’t you?”

Honor hesitated, her lips trembled as if uncertain whether to laugh or to cry.

“You like me a little—I hope,” he pleaded anxiously.

The lips broke into a faint but unmistakable smile.

“You are the only girl I have ever cared two straws about. I swear that this is the truth, and not the usual stock statement. I had a presentiment that you were my fate that night we walked along the railway line. That Eurasian fellow in the hut had a prophetic eye!”

“I am not so sure of that!” she said, with sudden vehemence. “You knew very well that you ought to have spoken out long ago.”

“I would have spoken to you weeks ago, but that I was uncertain what answer you would give me.”

“Oh!” recoiling with a gesture of indescribable horror. “What do you think I meant? I mean, that you might have let us all know who you were.”

“Better late than never, I hope,” he rejoined quickly. “My uncle knows all about you. May I speak to your aunt to-night?”

“What do you wish to tell her?” she faltered.

“That I am going to be her nephew,” he answered, with the utmost composure.

“No—no—no,” bursting into a half-hysterical laugh, “you must give me time—I want to think it over.”

“Honor,” coming close to her, and resolutely taking her trembling hand in his, “can you not think it over now? Will you marry me?”

Although her fingers shook in his hold, she held herself nervously erect, as she stood looking out over the moon-flooded mountains in silence, her eyes fixed on the far-away horizon with the gaze of one lost in meditation. She was crowding many thoughts into the space of seconds. Among them this—

“The gloved hand in which hers was imprisoned, how strong and steadfast—a brave hand to guide and support and defend her through life.”

At last, with tremulous nervous abruptness, she made this totally irrelevant and unexpected remark—

“I wonder what people will say when they hear what a dreadful impostor you have been! Of course, I know what they will say of me—that I have guessed the truth all along—and have played my cards beautifully! Oh, I can hear them saying it!”

And she hastily withdrew her fingers, and looked at him with a mixture of defiance and dismay.

“You think more of what people will say than of me, Honor!” he exclaimed reproachfully.

“No, no!” filled with instant compunction, and her blushes as she spoke were visible even by moonlight. “I think more of you than of any one, Mark.” Then, as if frightened at her own confession, she hastened to add, “Every one is going in, and here is my next partner coming to look for me.”

“Let him look!” was the unprincipled answer. “Shall we go down and sit on the seat in the tennis-ground, by the big verbena tree?”

“But I am engaged to Major Lawrence,” she objected, though she knew that resistance was useless.

“No doubt; but you are engaged to me—you and I are to be partners for life. Ah, ha!” with a triumphant laugh. “There, he has been waylaid by Mrs. Troutbeck—he won’t get away from her under an hour. They are all going back,” glancing at many other couples who were gravitating towards the club; “we shall have the place to ourselves. Come along,” and leading her down the steps, they passed among glimmering flower-beds, and faint sweet flowers, to a recently vacated rustic bench. “I dare say you have often wondered what kept me at Shirani?” he began. “I came, in the first instance, hoping to meet my father. He has been thirty years out here, he was in the Indian Cavalry, and settled in this country, which he loves. My uncle is my adopted father, and I have seen very little of my real father since I was a kid; he lives in mysterious retirement in these hills, about fifty miles away, and is a widower for the second time. I have been waiting on week after week, hoping that he would send for me—that was my chief motive for remaining at Shirani. It is no longer so—as you very well know—in fact, of late, you have driven him clean out of my head!”

“If he were my father, I would go and visit him, without waiting for an invitation,” said Honor, resolutely.

“I have written several times to say that I should like to see him, and asking when I might start—a plain enough hint, surely?”

“You are too punctilious. Why wait to be asked? There, that waltz is over; what a short one it was. Now I must really go in.”

“What a thing it is to have a conscience! A strong sense of duty to one’s partners!” he exclaimed with a laugh. “However, I am one of them myself, and I will let you off easily.”

“No, thank you,” she answered, with uncompromising rectitude. “Pray what about your own partners? And you are one of the hosts, too!”

“I see that I may always look to you now to remind me of my duty,” he said, rising with extreme reluctance. “And I never felt more inclined to shirk it than now.”

“I am sure I shall have quite enough to do to remember my own shortcomings; but at any rate I can manage to remind you of yours to-night. We,” with a happy little sigh, “shall have to-morrow,” and she also stood up to depart.

“Yes, please God, thousands of to-morrows. But, Honor, this one moment that you are so anxious to pass by and leave behind can never be repeated or effaced; this hour, when you gave yourself to me here, in this over-grown Indian garden, under the Southern Cross. When we are old Darby and Joan, sitting by our fireside in cold work-a-day England, we shall—at any rate, I shall—look back on this hour as sacred,” and he put his arm round her and kissed her.

The intelligence that Jervis was the Simon Pure, the real, true, and only millionaire, was buzzed from ear to ear, and had soon spread over the club like wild-fire. Mrs. Brande ceased to yawn, fanned herself feverishly, and snappishly refused to believe “one single word of it.” Mrs. Langrishe, for once, sat dumb and glum. More unlikely things had happened within her somewhat extensive experience. Colonel Sladen spluttered out his whole vocabulary of ejaculations and expletives, and Lalla Paske’s eyebrows were almost lost to sight under her fringe! Of course it was the one and only topic; the air was still throbbing with the news, when, during a pause between two dances, Mr. Jervis and Miss Gordon walked into the ball-room. Their entrance produced quite a dramatic effect. How well-bred his air, how fine his profile and the pose of his head; with what easy grace his clothes sat upon him—clothes that were undeniably fashioned by a first-rate London tailor. These little details now struck people who had hitherto scarcely spared him a glance. As for Miss Gordon, she was always beautiful and charming. The pair made an uncommonly effective couple, and they looked so radiant, that their future happiness was evidently a settled thing. Yes, now that one came to think of it, they had always been good friends.

“And was it really thirty thousand a year? Was it in soap or pork? At any rate, it was a magnificent match for a penniless girl!” whispered a married lady to her partner.

“Of course the old woman was in the secret all along,” remarked Mrs. Langrishe to a neighbour; “she is much cleverer than any of us have supposed. Oh, what a deep game she has played! What an old serpent!”