that their barely-veiled hostility had inflicted. In bitterness of soul
she hid it from all the world, and only her brother and her brother's
grim and somewhat unapproachable captain were even vaguely aware of its
existence.

Everard Monck was one of the very few men who had not laid themselves
down before her dainty feet, and she had gradually come to believe that
this man shared the silent, side-long disapproval manifested by the
women. Very strangely that belief hurt her even more deeply, in a
subtle, incomprehensible fashion, than any slights inflicted by her own
sex. Possibly Tommy's warm enthusiasm for the man had made her more
sensitive regarding his good opinion. And possibly she was over ready to
read condemnation in his grave eyes. But--whatever the reason--she would
have given much to have had him on her side. Somehow it mattered to her,
and mattered vitally.

But Monck had never joined her retinue of courtiers. He was never other
than courteous to her, but he did not seek her out. Perhaps he had
better things to do. Aloof, impenetrable, cold, he passed her by, and
she would have been even more amazed than Tommy had she heard him
describe her as beautiful, so convinced was she that he saw in her no
charm.

It had been a disheartening struggle, this hewing for herself a way
along the rocky paths of prejudice, and many had been the thorns under
her feet. Though she kept a brave heart and never faltered, she had
tired inevitably of the perpetual effort it entailed. Three weeks after
her arrival, when the annual exodus of the ladies of the regiment to the
Hills was drawing near, she became engaged to Ralph Dacre, the
handsomest and most irresponsible man in the mess.