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The broad brow, the short straight nose, the strength and tenderness of the mouth and chin, the smile that hovered like a light in her serious eyes; every detail was faultlessly rendered. But Quita's cry of surprise expressed annoyance rather than admiration. "What possessed you to do that?" she asked, sharply. "It is a living likeness yes. Better send it to her friend, Captain Lenox.
"I am glad of that too. For I want very much to be good friends with Captain Lenox's wife." On the last word a slow colour crept back into Quita's cheeks. "You mustn't speak of it yet, to any one else. There are difficulties big difficulties . . ." "I know; but you may trust him to conquer them. One feels in him the sort of force that moves mountains." Again Quita nodded.
An apathetic hotel porter was removing Quita's trunk: and nothing that had been said or done in the last half-hour had hurt him so keenly as this insignificant item: the touch of commonplace that levels all things. With a gesture he indicated his own portmanteau. "Take that also," he said, and strode out of the room. At least he had the right to shield her from comment.
But Quita's letter, written in her 'garden' on a boulder, before breakfast, had transported Lenox many hundred miles away from it all. The cluttering of squirrels, and the cries of poor Miriam Bibi entered his ears; but the spirit of him was back among the mountains; the scent of warm pine-needles was is his nostrils, the spell of his wife's face and voice upon his heart.
"Yes, vigorously, to the tune of bullets and cold steel; so that we manage to keep things pretty lively between us! Since we annexed the Frontier, nearly forty years ago, the Piffers have taken part in more than thirty Border expeditions, all told, to say nothing of the Afghan War." Quita's attention had been diverted from her picture to her husband's face.
"Our frailties are invincible, our virtues barren; and the battle goes sore against us to the going down of the sun." The rain, which had set in with such quiet determination at sunset, fulfilled its promise of continuing through the night: and the pattering on the slates that had mingled with Quita's latest thoughts greeted her, with derisive iteration, when she opened her eyes next morning.
As Lenox stood feasting his soul upon the splendour of it all, he knew that this was one of the great days of his life: that only Quita's inspiring presence was needed to crown the triumph of it.
The glass doors of the centre room stood open, a characteristic room, half drawing-room, half studio; furnished mainly with two large easels, painting-stools, and cane chairs, yet bearing in every detail the stamp of Quita's iridescent personality. A pianette, a violin, a litter of music, and back numbers of the 'Art Journal' occupied one corner.
For March is India's rose month: and in the midst of so much that is unlovely, the roses of Dera Ishmael Khan are things to marvel at, and thank Heaven for. Quita's rambling compound was packed with them, from the plebeian Cabbage, to the lordly Maréchal Neil.
They did not reach it till well after eight o'clock, when those who awaited her had given up all hope, and were just sitting down to dinner. Lenox still wore his arm in a sling, and the lines in his face looked deeper than usual. Otherwise he was quite himself again. The anxiety in his eyes gave place to dejection as Honor handed him Quita's note. "Shall I open it for you?" she added gently.
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