Spurling, for so was she named, had a warm nut-brown complexion, almost as dark as a Creole; and a moustache on her upper lip, that would have done no discredit to the oldest dragoon in the King's service. His face changed and she saw, with a stab at her heart, the dawning of irritation in his eyes. Profoundly. At breakfast both of them played their parts skillfully. By a tacit agreement they ignored the significant thing between them, ignored the slipping away of the ground on which they had stood together hitherto. ‘Now then,’ said the captain sternly, ‘I’m not going to ask you what you’re doing here.
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