The Garden
of roses where the dark surface of a round lake glimmered faintly.
Perching on the stone railing, a scarf flung over the flimsy ball gown, she stared out at the sentinel-like trees rising against the sky. It was chilly and a fresh wind was lifting the branches of the trees below her, setting the tiny globes of the lanterns to dancing.
The last thing Edith wanted was to be left alone. She listened sympathetically while the young subaltern described the miraculous floating gardens of Akbar, the pleasure palace of the dead emperors. She liked the witchery of the darkening garden, she liked the subaltern, and the music
"My dance, I believe. Miss Rand."
At the first strains of the music beginning anew, Monsey had appeared behind them. Instinctively Edith yearned to restrain her former partner who now bowed, preparing to leave. Then she rose quietly. After all, she had promised.
So she walked back to the ballroom, her hand on Monsey's arm. It would soon be over. Then she could enjoy the evening.
Monsey had placed his arm lightly on her waist, and she swayed to the rhythm of the music, when a voice spoke at her side.
"Mem-sahib, pardon!"
Edith turned inquiringly, to see Rawul Singh stiffly at attention. Monsey wheeled on the Garhwali, his lean face dark.
"It is the order of the major-sahib," Rawul Singh bowed apologetically. "He has sent a message."
Monsey would have spoken angrily, but the girl was before him. The appearance of the orderly made her heart leap. "My father—he is here?"
51
