ambitious."

"Is he ambitious?" Stella's voice sounded rather weary, wholly void of
interest.

Dacre inhaled a deep breath of cigar-smoke and puffed it slowly forth.
His curiosity was warming. "Oh yes, ambitious as they're made. Those
strong, silent chaps always are. And there's no doubt he will make his
mark some day. He is a positive marvel at languages. And he dabbles in
Secret Service matters too, disguises himself and goes among the natives
in the bazaars as one of themselves. A fellow like that, you know, is
simply priceless to the Government. And he is as tough as leather. The
climate never touches him. He could sit on a grille and be happy. No
doubt he will be a very big pot some day." He tipped the ash from his
cigar. "You and I will be comfortably growing old in a villa at
Cheltenham by that time," he ended.

A little shiver went through Stella. She said nothing and silence fell
between them again. The moon was rising behind a rugged line of
snow-hills across the valley, touching them here and there with a
silvery radiance, casting mysterious shadows all about them, sending a
magic twilight over the whole world so that they saw it dimly, as
through a luminous veil. The scent of Dacre's cigar hung in the air,
fragrant, aromatic, Eastern. He was sleepily watching his wife's pure
profile as she gazed into her world of dreams. It was evident that she
took small interest in Monck and his probable career. It was not
surprising. Monck was not the sort of man to attract women; he cared so
little about them--this silent watcher whose eyes were ever searching
below the surface of Eastern life, who studied and read and knew so much
more than any one else and yet who guarded knowledge and methods so