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"Which is Ernestine?" asked another member, generally known at the club as "that ass Bray." "The little one, isn't it; the one that laughs?" "The cheeky one yes," said Archie. "I saw her ridin' in the Park with Dinghra the other day. Awful brute, Dinghra, if he is a rajah's son." "Shocking bounder!" said Bray. "But rich a quality that covers a multitude of sins."
"Especially in Lady Florence's estimation," remarked Archie. "She's had designs on him ever since Easter. Ernestine is a nice little thing, you know, but somehow she hangs fire. A trifle over-independent, I suppose, and she has a sharp tongue, too tells the truth a bit too often, don't you know. I don't get on with that sort of girl myself. But I'll swear Dinghra is head over ears, the brute.
Later, she wondered at that also. Rivington jerked the exhausted man upright. "Go back!" he said to Ernestine. "Go back! I won't kill him!" She took him at his word, and went back. She heard Rivington speak briefly and sternly, and Dinghra mumbled something in reply. She heard the shuffling of feet, and knew that Rivington was helping him to walk.
He was very plainly in no mood for trivialities. "And the engagement really exists?" he questioned. The Englishman's brows went up. "Of course it exists." "Ah!" It was like a snarl. The white teeth gleamed for a moment. "I had no idea," Dinghra said, still with the same feverish rapidity, "that I had a rival." "Are we rivals?" said Rivington, amiably regretful. "It's the first I have heard of it."
Naturally, she would like me to be a princess, and, as she says, I can't pick and choose. Which is true, you know," she put in quaintly, "for men don't like me as a rule; at least, not the marrying sort. I rather think I'm not the marrying sort myself. I've never been in love, never once. But I couldn't I could not marry Dinghra. But it's no good telling him so.
"The matter is entirely between you and me," he said. "Oh!" Rivington became reflective. The Indian crossed his arms and waited. "Well," Rivington said at length, "I will name my price, since you desire it, but I warn you it's a fairly stiff one. You won't like it." "Speak!" said Dinghra eagerly. His eyes literally blazed at the Englishman's imperturbable face.
"You must have known!" The green glare suddenly began to flicker with a ruddy tinge as of flame. "Every one knew that I was after her." "Oh yes, I knew that," said Rivington. "But pardon me if I fail to see that that fact constitutes any rivalry between us. We were engaged long before she met you. We have been engaged for years." "For years!" Dinghra took a sudden step forward.
Cecil Mordaunt Rivington whose engagement to Miss Ernestine Cardwell was announced in this morning's paper," he said, speaking quickly but very distinctly. "The same," said Rivington. He added with a shrug of the shoulders, "A somewhat high-sounding name for such a humble citizen as myself, but it was not of my own choosing." Dinghra ignored the remark.
The blue eyes widened for a moment, then smiled approbation. "Very appropriate," murmured Rivington. "All right, Tommy; I know the gentleman." He was still smiling as he entered his room. A slim, dark man turned swiftly from its farther end to meet him. He had obviously been prowling up and down. "Mr. Rivington?" he said interrogatively. Rivington bowed. "Mr. Dinghra Singh?" he returned.
He spoke very kindly, with a gentleness that was infinitely reassuring. With an impulsive movement of complete confidence, she slipped her hand through his arm. "Thank you, Knight Errant," she said. "I wanted that." She did not ask him anything about Dinghra, and he wondered a little at her forbearance. The days of Rivington's sojourn slipped by with exceeding smoothness.
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