Rose of the World

od must pursue its career far away from home. And it is our strength that these Engl

ture his life elsewhere. The glamour of the East, of the East that is England's, had entered into his blood, without, however,

ght like himself and fought like himself; content to spend the best years of existence hanging between heaven and earth on the arid flanks of a Kashmir mountain range, in forts the walls of which had been cemented by centuries of blood; looked forward,

*

nscious of a strange emotion, almost a contraction of the heart, as he followed the kitmutgar

he indescribable breath of the East—into the dim cool room; it was like stepping from India into England! And by the tug at his heart-strings he might have analysed (had he been of those that analyse) that, after all, the old home

those delicate blossoms our paler sunshine nourishes. Some such room, dignified with the consciousness of a rigid selection, reticent to primness in its simple yet distinguished art, fragrant with the potpourri of English gardens, fragrant too with memories of generations of wholesome English gentlefolks, you may meet with any day in some old manor-house of t

ry whim," he said to himself, bitterly enough, the while he st

ouch to the illusion. In India one so seldom hears a piano t

es. Their expression changed, however, when he beheld the newcomer. A young, very young girl, hardly eighteen perhaps, of the plump type of immaturity; something indeed of a cherubic ba

her right hand; and, without looking

to keep up my poor music in this beastly country?" Then she added, in a pettish undertone: "I h

, so unmistakably fresh from the salt brisk Engl

on!" she cried, with a

taught him not to waste his

she shot a look at him. She had very bright hazel eyes, under wide full brows. "Perhaps," she said, "you w

he answered imperturbably. "I wrot

O

ively note of surprise and a comical rounding of small mouth and big eyes

she cried, with an engagi

gain, he

Lady Gerardine

e clock on the ca

hot cheeks. "I think Aunt Rosamond is wonderful," she went on, preparing herself, with a small sigh, to the task of entertaining. "The Runkle—I mean my uncle—is always after her. But I am sure there is not another Lieutenant-Governor's

plump cheeks. "I am Aspasia Cuningham, and I have come to live with my

nd Bet

spasia, running her eye

Guides. Major

no

and things,"

good look at him. A somewhat lantern-jawed, very thin face had he, tanned almost to copper; brown hair, cropped close, a slight fair moustache; and steady pale eyes beneath overhanging brows. There was not a

ond by second, the lines of his countenance grew set into deeper sternness. Miss Cuningham coughed. She played a scale upon her knee, stretched

t I take

bear upon her, with an effort,

your

could give me a mess

afraid

e Runkle—Sir Arthur, I mea

N

unt Rosamond—L

d: "No," and "No" again,

O

erself. "What a rude pig!" she thought angrily, in her downright sch

actising very hard. I have never heard any one play scales with such energy over

softened still

e; and, being herself the most gregarious little soul

orten it into anything decent. You could not call me Aspy, or Pashy, or Asia, could you? So people have got into the way of calling me Baby. I do not mind. It's better than Aspasia. But uncle won't. He is my godfather, you see, and thinks it's a lovely name. There's a stupid old cousin of ours, Lady Aspasia Something-or-other, whom he thinks the world of. So he always will say: 'My dear Raspasia ... my dear Raspasia!' So I got into the way of calling him

And as now (perceiving suddenly that he had not been listening to her) she fell into an affronted silence, she noticed how

sly pushed the door-hangings aside; a soft murmur of muslin skirts against matting grew i

e said questioningl

amiliar to you," h

contracting her brows; then

h a bad memory. But I a

aciously. He barely tou

she said, and t

n of affairs. Sweet, cool, aloof, the most exquisite courtesy marked her every gesture. Had the new comer been

e. "Baby, why did not you order t

mposure of her countenance. Miss Cuning

ie of the Persian fairy tale, the servant

a lemon-squash? Major Bethune, I am

ring at his hostess fro

*

nder a crown of hair, fiery gold; those long lissom limbs; the head with its wealth, dropping a little on the long throat. Oh, aye, that was she! Even so had she been described to him: the "flower among women!"—even so, by lips, eloquent with the fulness of the heart (alas! what arid mountain wind might not now be playing with the dust of what was once instinct with such generous life!)—even so, had Ha

. But she—she had

*

u been l

his visit quite as

esterday. I

And what

er her face. She compressed her lips and drew a breath

clad servants entered upon them, and the tens

ajor Bethune, or this

as already sucking through a straw; she rolled her eyes, expressi

e nothing,

d her forgetfulness, her indifference, now harm the dead? It was fantastic, unreasonable, and yet he could

must seem an intrusion. But I trust you will forgi

wave of her hand. The emeralds

making for his point, "I have been a

ion among the ice and bubbles

et!" She choked down, just in time, the comment: "Worse

smiling again in

s written before they die. And they have then the advantage of co

before continuing his speech. Then h

should have said your late husband. I