There was a cold and brooding restraint, which
had seemed to cast a chill even over the sultry Indian midday, but
Justine's smile was bright and winning as she faintly acknowledged
with a blushing cheek Major Hawke's gallantry as he sprang up and
opened the door for the retiring lady. "She will come, she will
come," gayly throbbed the Major's happy heart.
Alan Hawke was now thoroughly on his guard. He had never lifted an
eyebrow at the mention of Miss Johnstone. He had dropped Justine
Delande like a plummet into the lake of forgetfulness, and watched
Hugh Johnstone's listless trifling with the dainties of the superb
collation. The raw-boned old Scotsman leaned heavily back in his
chair.
His bony hands were thin and claw-like, his bushy white beard
and eyebrows gave him a "service" aspect, while his cold blue eye
gleamed out pale and menacing as the Pole star on wintry arctic
seas. His broad chest was sunken, his tall form was bent, and a
visible air of dejection and unrest had replaced the sturdy vigor
of his early manhood. He was sipping a glass of pale ale in silence
when Hawke neatly applied the lance once more. "It must be a great
change for you to leave India, Johnstone, but you need rest, and a
general shaking up. You have a good deal to leave here. I suppose
your nephew--"
"He's a good lad, but a stranger to me, Hawke," broke in the host.
"The fact is, I am as yet undecided.
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