Evelyn Desmond, perched lightly on the railings, showed ethereal as a large white butterfly, in the daintiness of her summer finery against a background of glowing sky. She swung a lace parasol aimlessly to and fro, and her gaze was concentrated on the buckle of an irreproachable shoe.
Honor, withdrawing her eyes reluctantly from the brooding peace of mountain and sky, wondered a little at her pensiveness; wondered also where her thoughts – if mere flittings of the mind are entitled to be so called – had carried her.
As a matter of fact, she was thinking of unpaid bills; since human lilies of the field, though they neither toil nor spin, must pay for irreproachable shoes and unlimited summer raiment.
The girl's own thoughts, as they were apt to do in leisure moments, had wandered to Kohat: to the men who were working with cheerful, matter-of-fact courage in the glare of the little desert-station; and to the one brave woman, who remained in their midst to hearten them by her own indomitable gladness of soul.
The beauty of the evening bred a longing – natural in one so sympathetic – that they also could be up on this green hill-top, under the shade of the deodars, enjoying the exquisite repose of it all.
"Have you heard from Theo this week, Ladybird?" she asked suddenly. It was the first time she had used the name, for habit is strong; and Evelyn looked up quickly, the colour deepening in her cheeks.
"Don't call me Ladybird!" she commanded, with unusual decision. "It belongs to Theo."
Honor noted her rising colour with a smile of approval.
"I'm sorry, dear," she said gently. "I quite understand. But – have you heard lately?"
Evelyn's face cleared as readily as a child's.
"Oh, yes; I forgot to tell you. I had quite a long letter this morning. Perhaps you would like to read it."
And drawing an envelope from her pocket she tossed it into Honor's lap.
The girl glanced down at it quickly; but allowed it to lie there untouched. She knew that Desmond wrote good letters, and she would have dearly liked to read this one. But a certain manly strain in her forbade her to trespass on the privacy of a letter written to his wife.
"Thank you," she said; "I think I won't read it, though. I don't suppose Theo would care about his letters being passed on to me. I only want to know if things are going on all right."
"Oh, yes; in the usual sort of way. They've had trouble with those wretched Waziris. Two sentries murdered last week; and some horses stolen. Oh! and Mrs Olliver has had a bad touch of fever; and there's cholera in the city, but they don't think it'll spread. What a gruesome place it is! And what a mercy we're not there now. By the way," she added, working her parasol into a crack between two boards, "I met the Kresneys as I was coming home."
"The Kresneys! Here?"
Honor sat suddenly upright, all trace of weariness gone from her face.
"Yes. They're up for six weeks, and they seemed so pleased to see me that – I asked them in to dinner to-night."
"Evelyn!"
"Well – why not?" A spark of defiance glinted through the dark curves of her lashes.
"You know Theo would hate it."
"I daresay. But he isn't here; so it can't matter to him. And he need not know anything about it."
"My dear! That would be worse than all!"
Evelyn frowned.
"Really, Honor, for a clever person, you're rather stupid. It would be simply idiotic to tell him what is sure to annoy him, when the thing's done and he can't prevent it."
The girl leaned back with an impatient sigh.
"If you feel so sure it will annoy him, why on earth do you do it? He is so good to you in every possible way."
A great longing came upon her to disclose all that he had been ready to relinquish five weeks ago.
"I know that without your telling me," Evelyn retorted sharply. "But I think I might do as I like just while I'm up here. And I mean to – whatever you say. The Kresneys came here, instead of going to Mussoorie, chiefly to see me. I can't ignore them; and I won't."
"Well, for goodness' sake, don't ask them to the house again, that's all." Then, because she could scarcely trust herself to say more on the subject, and because she had no wish to risk a quarrel, she added quickly: "A parcel came while we were out. Perhaps you'd like to open it before dinner."
Evelyn was on her feet at once – the Kresneys forgotten as though they were not.
"It must be my new dress for the General's garden-party. How lovely!"
"Another dress? Your almirah's choked with them already."
"Those are only what I got at Simla last year."
"You seem to have gone in rather extensively for dresses last year," Honor remarked, a trifle critically. Since their arrival in Murree she had become better acquainted with the details of Evelyn's wardrobe; and the knowledge had troubled her not a little. "How about your trousseau?"
"Mother gave me hardly any dresses. She said I wouldn't need them on the Frontier. But I must have decent clothes, even in the wilderness."
"Yes, I suppose so. Still you will find continual dresses from Simla a terrible drain on a limited allowance."
A delicate flush crept into Evelyn's cheeks, and her eyes had an odd glitter that came to them when she felt herself hard-pressed, yet did not intend to give in.
"What do you know about my allowance?"
"I happen to know the amount of it," Honor answered quietly. "I also know the cost of clothes such as you have been getting in Simla, and – I am puzzled to see how the two can be made to fit. You do pay for your things, I suppose?" she added, with a flash of apprehension. She herself had never been allowed to indulge in bills.
Evelyn's colour ebbed at the direct question; and she took instant refuge in anger and matrimonial dignity, as being safer than truth.
"Really, Honor, you're getting rather a nuisance just lately. Scolding and preaching never does me a scrap of good – and you know it. What I do with my allowance isn't anybody's business but my own, and I won't be treated as if I were a child. After all" – with a fine mingling of dignity and scorn – "I'm the married woman. You're only a girl – staying with me; and I think I might be allowed to manage my own affairs, without you always criticising and interfering."
By this time Honor had risen also; a line of sternness hardening her beautiful mouth. Beneath her sustained cheerfulness lay a passionate temper; and Evelyn's unexpected attack stung it fiercely into life. Several seconds passed before she could trust herself to speak.
"Very well, Evelyn," she said, at length, "from to-day there shall be an end of my criticism and interference. You seem to forget that you asked for my help. But as you don't need it any longer I will hand over the account books to you to-morrow morning; and you had better give Nazar Khan some orders about dinner. There isn't very much in the house."
Only once before had Evelyn seen her friend roused to real indignation; and she was fairly frightened at the effect of her own hasty words.
"Oh, Honor, don't be so angry as that!" she pleaded brokenly. "You know I simply can't – "
But with a decisive gesture Honor set her aside, and walking straight past her, mounted the steep staircase to her own room.
Arrived there, she stood still as one dazed, her hands pressed against her temples. There were times when this girl felt a little afraid of her own vehemence; which, but for the heritage of a strong will, and her unfailing reliance on a Higher Judgment, might indeed have proved disastrous for herself and others.
With controlled deliberation