From the beginning of the meeting she
had once raised her eyes--on Nehal Singh's entry--and then it had been
for no more than a second. That second had been enough. She had seen
his face. She had seen--and it was not her imagination, but a real and
bitter irony--that of all the people in the room she alone had been
the object of his quiet greeting. She knew then--for her eyes had not
lost their keenness--that the eighteen months in which they had
scarcely met had made no difference to him. He still reverenced and
loved her. For him she was still "Lakshmi," the goddess of beauty and
perfection; for him she was still the ideal, the woman of goodness and
truth and purity. Her victory over him had been complete, eternal. She
had betrayed him and retained him. Of all her triumphs over men and
circumstances this was the most perfect. Yet she sat there, white and
still, not lifting her eyes from the table, and seemingly unconscious
of all that went on about her.
Presently a carriage drove up the avenue. They heard Travers' voice
giving some orders, and a moment later he himself entered, followed by
a Mr. Medway, his chief mining engineer. He closed the door and with a
grave bow took his place at the table. He seemed indifferent to or
unaware of the curious and somewhat anxious glances which were turned
toward him. There was something in his appearance which cast an
unpleasant chill over every one of the little assembly.
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