She took no notice of Mahommed Gunga until he swore at her.
"Miss-sahib hai ?" he growled; and the woman jumped up in a hurry and went inside.

A moment later Rosemary McClean stood framed in the doorway still in her cotton riding-habit, very pale--evidently frightened at the summons--but strangely, almost ethereally, beautiful.

Her wealth of chestnut hair was loosely coiled above her neck, as though she had been caught in the act of dressing it.

She looked like the wan, wasted spirit of human pity--he like a great, grim war-god.
"Salaam, Miss Maklin-sahib!" He dismounted as he spoke and stood at attention, then stared truculently, too inherently chivalrous to deny her civility--he would have cut his throat as soon as address her from horseback while she stood--and too contemptuous of her father's calling to be more civil than he deemed in keeping with his honor.
"Salaam, Mohammed Gunga!" She seemed very much relieved, although doubtful yet.

"Not letters again ?" "No, Miss-sahib.