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She was going back to Dindigul, or wherever it was, at the end of the season; and in all likelihood would never return to Simla again; her proper Hill-station being Ootacamund. That night Hannasyde, raw and savage from the raking up of all old feelings, took counsel with himself for one measured hour.
He kept his unrequited attachment by him as men keep a well-smoked pipe for comfort's sake, and because it had grown dear in the using. It brought him happily through the Simla season. Hannasyde was not lovely. There was a crudity in his manners, and a roughness in the way in which he helped a lady on to her horse, that did not attract the other sex to him.
Hannasyde was loafing up the hill, one September morning between calling hours, when a 'rickshaw came down in a hurry, and in the 'rickshaw sat the living, breathing image of the girl who had made him so happily unhappy. Hannasyde leaned against the railings and gasped. He wanted to run downhill after the 'rickshaw, but that was impossible; so he went forward with most of his blood in his temples.
Hannasyde shook hands, and said very earnestly and adoringly "I hope to Heaven I shall never see your face again!" And Mrs. Haggert understood. And he told a tale. Chronicles of Gautama Buddha.
Hannasyde shook hands, and said very earnestly and adoringly: "I hope to Heaven I shall never see your face again!" And Mrs. Haggert understood. I closed and drew for my love's sake, That now is false to me, And I slew the Riever of Tarrant Moss, And set Dumeny free.
In the actual woman herself in the soul of her there was not the least likeness; she and Alice Chisane being cast in different moulds. But all that Hannasyde wanted to know and see and think about, was this maddening and perplexing likeness of face and voice and manner. He was bent on making a fool of himself that way; and he was in no sort disappointed.
Landys-Haggert singing to herself in the next room, while Hannasyde was waiting to take her for a ride, hummed, note for note, with a throaty quiver of the voice in the second line, "Poor Wandering One!" exactly as Alice Chisane had hummed it for Hannasyde in the dusk of an English drawing-room.
The Lucknow week, with two dances, and an unlimited quantity of rides together, clinched matters; and Hannasyde found himself pacing this circle of thought: He adored Alice Chisane, at least he had adored her. And he admired Mrs. Landys-Haggert because she was like Alice Chisane. But Mrs. Landys-Haggert was not in the least like Alice Chisane, being a thousand times more adorable.
Hannasyde did not see that he had made any very particular exhibition of himself. He was glad to find a sympathetic soul in the arid wastes of Simla. When the season ended, Hannasyde went down to his own place and Mrs. Haggert to hers, "It was like making love to a ghost," said Hannasyde to himself, "and it doesn't matter; and now I'll get to my work."
Haggert said, with the least little touch of scorn in her voice: "So I'm to act as the lay-figure for you to hang the rags of your tattered affections on, am I?" Hannasyde didn't see what answer was required, and he devoted himself generally and vaguely to the praise of Alice Chisane, which was unsatisfactory. Now it is to be thoroughly made clear that Mrs.
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