The Tigress. Warner Anne

had been to see her.

      He had all along been leaving a card for her every day or so. Now he scribbled a line on the card, asking that she would give him a few – just a very few minutes.

      He hardly dared fancy that she would. But she did.

      Except for her mourning, he found her very little changed.

      "I thought you were at work ages ago," was how she greeted him.

      He spoke then of the cards he had left. He had sent her some flowers, too.

      "I've had no interest in anything," she told him. "There are hundreds of cards here. Some day I may look at them, and still I may not. Every officer in Umballa has sent me flowers, and some of the enlisted men as well. But I do thank you."

      "You've never once thought of me, I believe," he reproached.

      "That's true," she replied, "I haven't. I've had so much to think of, and it hurts me to think. So I've let Lord Kneedrock do most of the thinking for me."

      "It hurts to be forgotten so quickly," he said, his big brown eyes suddenly misty.

      "I've been trying to forget so much," Nina confessed.

      "And me – did you have to try very hard to forget me?"

      "I hadn't begun on you yet. You see, you didn't even occur." She noticed the mist, and added: "I'm sorry."

      "You're not a bit," he declared. "You like to hurt me, I believe. But I'll make you remember."

      She felt like laughing for the first time since the news of Darling's death was brought to her.

      "Please don't," she pleaded.

      "Don't make you remember?"

      "Oh, you can't do that! I mean, please don't weep. You promised me once you wouldn't, you know."

      He rose, frowning, the last hope dead, and she sat regarding him through drooped lashes.

      "Good-by!" he muttered, and began backing toward the door.

      She waited until his hand was on the knob. Then:

      "Good-by, Gerald!" she said, smiling. "I'm so glad I had strength enough not to bolt with you when you asked me."

      "Why?" he asked, desperately seizing an excuse to linger.

      "Because you are so good-looking, and I do get so tired of looking at good-looking men."

      When he got back to Dinghal's quarters young Andrews tried to cut his own throat, mainly to make Nina remember him. That he didn't succeed in the act was due primarily to a nervously irresolute hand, and secondarily to his friend Dinghal, who suspected and arrived in the nick of time.

      In the excitement of the ensuing moment the young man told Dinghal every word of the conversation with Mrs. Darling; and the deputy commissioner, as he clumsily drew the edges of the shallow cut together and fastened them with court-plaster, waxed more and more indignant; for he was very fond of Gerald Andrews, and declared that if she didn't kill her husband it was not because she was not capable of it.

      It seems probable that he did not confine the expression of this opinion, either, to the privacy of his own dwelling. For guests at a dinner-party which he attended that same evening quoted him to the same effect – exaggerated, possibly, in the retelling – and the report in time trickled into the hearing of Kneedrock.

      Thereupon the viscount called upon the deputy commissioner, and some hot words passed between them. Dinghal, it seems, made no attempt whatever to disguise his opinion.

      "I don't care a damn what you think," returned Nina Darling's cousin. "That's your own business; the inalienable right of man and beast is to think whatever they please. But when a man gossips or a dog snarls, that changes the matter. They both deserve correction."

      Dinghal was not the most robust of men, but he was no coward. As has been said, he was rarely malicious. As a rule, he rehearsed his story, and left it to his hearers to draw their own conclusions.

      This time, through sheer loyalty to young Andrews, he had erred, and he knew it. But he was far from admitting this to Kneedrock.

      "And in the present instance the correction is to be administered – how?" he asked.

      "By me – with this," was the viscount's answer, holding up his doubled right hand.

      "You mean your purpose is to punch my head?"

      "Precisely," returned the other.

      "You must be mad, Lord Kneedrock. Remember that I am a civil officer in his majesty's service. If you feel that I have injured you or yours in any way, there is a recognized means of adjustment. There are the courts."

      "The courts are too slow and indecisive."

      "Nevertheless, if you dare lay a hand on me I shall test them. I give you fair warning."

      Kneedrock laughed his irritating laugh.

      "You are quite meeting my opinion of you," he said. "You are a cur and a poltroon."

      The deputy commissioner's face flamed. "If you dare repeat that," he snapped, "I shall – "

      "Go to the courts, I assume."

      The viscount saw his fingers double into his palms. "You are a liar and a scandalmonger!" he flung at him. And at this Dinghal drew back his fist.

      "Although you have the advantage," he flared, "no man may blackguard me and go unpunished!"

      "My left hand is crippled," said Kneedrock. "I shall not use it." And as Dinghal aimed a blow at his chin, he guarded with his right.

      The bout lasted something over four minutes, during which Kneedrock landed at will. There was no instant when he did not command.

      Now and again, to encourage his adversary to face further punishment, he permitted him to get in a body blow, or accepted a glancing tap on neck or cheek. And by way of finale he broke Dinghal's somewhat protuberant nose.

      Three days later he and Nina took ship at Bombay and sailed for England.

      CHAPTER VIII

      In a World Within a World

      "I'd rather have a whole cab-driver to myself than share a peer of the realm with another woman," said Mrs. Darling.

      She had been in England eighteen months, and the shadow of her tragedy, which never bore very heavily, had lifted.

      She sat in a basket chair on the lawn at Puddlewood, dressed all in filmy white, and sipped tea with the Duchess of Pemberwell, her great-aunt, in the shade of one of Puddlewood's ancient oaks. In her lap lay an unopened copy of the Times.

      "Is he a cab-driver, then?" inquired the duchess, taking her literally.

      "Yes," Nina laughed, "a heavenly cab-driver. He threads the milky way. Some say aviator."

      "Oh, Nina!"

      "He's very nice, I assure you, my dear. Not an ounce of fat on him. All bone and sinew and nerve."

      "And – a Yankee," added the duchess belittlingly.

      "A free-born American," corrected her great-niece, "and with the loveliest accent. You should hear him say: 'Evah at you' se'vice, Miss' Dahling.' You'd fall in love with him yourself."

      "And this aviator person is yours exclusively?"

      "Undividedly. Isn't it nice?"

      "I think I should prefer Nibbetts myself; or Sir George Grey, or – well, scores I could name."