The Garden
Edith met his glance fairly.
"It will be over in a minute," he urged, "and I will take you to the bungalow in my carriage." She hesitated, and he resumed impatiently, "Rawul Singh can accompany us—if you wish."
"But my father is waiting, Mr. Monsey."
"And I have waited. Since—Quebec."
Monsey's hand stretched out for the scarf. The girl drew it closer over her bare shoulders.
"You will not deny me the dance?"
"Yes—for the present."
"Then I will escort you to the bungalow." Swiftly, he shifted his ground. "Surely you will not refuse that, Miss Rand?"
His words were ironical, challenging. But Edith lifted her head purposefully. "My father has sent for me, Mr. Monsey"
"And you"
"I am going to the bungalow—with Rawul Singh."
He drew back, his dark eyes gleaming. Edith passed from the room, followed by the orderly. At the stairs she glanced back. Monsey was no longer to be seen.
She would not wait for Rawul Singh to find the carriage and bring it to the main entrance. Instead she accompanied the orderly out upon the drive, where groups of native servants and drivers stood about lanterns. A puff of wind smote at the bushes beside the road, chilling the girl who had come without sufficient covering.
"Hurry, Rawul Singh," she urged, "find the carriage."
He ran ahead shouting among the idlers. She pressed after, not wishing to lose sight of him. They
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