He had
been ordered for a year to Madras, and thus it came about that they
often met. Travers' first dislike for the officer had evaporated, and
he seemed rather to insist on an increase of their intimacy, inviting
Nicholson constantly to the house. And in those long evening visits
Nicholson had seen what others did not see and what Lois kept hidden
in her own heart. For she had told no one that the mirages were no
more than mirages--that her life still lacked all the vital elements
of reality and sincerity. She was proud, and not even the people in
dear old Marut suspected that she was stifling in the hot Madras air
and in the unhealthy atmosphere of small lies and loose principles in
which Travers was so thoroughly at home. Only Nicholson's sensitive
temperament felt what others neither heard nor saw.
So a year had passed, and every evening Lois sat by the window,
watching the busy crowd, and building up their lives as she had once
dreamed of building up her own. She scarcely thought of herself.
Memories are dangerous. The present was too real to be considered, and
the future too blank and hopeless.
The darkness increased. Twilight yielded to nightfall, and the yellow
lights sprang up in the shops opposite her window. She heard the door
open, but did not turn, thinking it was her husband unexpectedly
returned.
"Shall I light the lamp?" she asked.
It was not Travers who answered.
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