A few days after he had taken her she had seen him chastise a servant.
She did not know what the man's fault had been, but the punishment
seemed out of all proportion to anything that could be imagined, and
she had watched fascinated with horror, until he had tossed away the
murderous whip, and without a second glance at the limp, blood-stained
heap that huddled on the ground with suggestive stillness had strolled
back unconcerned to the tent. The sight had sickened her and haunted
her perpetually. His callousness horrified her even more than his
cruelty. She hated him with all the strength of her proud, passionate
nature. His personal beauty even was an additional cause of offence.
She hated him the more for his handsome face and graceful, muscular
body. His only redeeming virtue in her eyes was his total lack of
vanity, which she grudgingly admitted. He was as unconscious of himself
as was the wild animal with which she compared him.
"He is like a tiger," she murmured deep into the cushions, with a
shiver, "a graceful, cruel, merciless beast." She remembered a tiger
she had shot the previous winter in India. After hours of weary,
cramped waiting in the machan the beautiful creature had slipped
noiselessly through the undergrowth and emerged into the clearing. He
had advanced midway towards the tree where she was perched and had
stopped to listen, and the long, free stride, the haughty poise of the
thrown-back head, the cruel curl of the lips and the glint in the
ferocious eyes flashing in the moonlight, were identical with the
expression and carriage of the man who was her master. Then it had been
admiration without fear, and she had hesitated at wantonly destroying
so perfect a thing, until the quick pressure of her shikari's fingers
on her arm brought her back to facts and reminded her that the "perfect
thing" was reported to have eaten a woman the previous week. And now it
was fear with a reluctant admiration that she despised herself for
according.
A hand on her shoulder made her start up with a cry. Usually her nerves
were in better control, but the thick rugs deadened every sound, and
she had not expected him so soon. He had been out since dawn and had
come in much past his usual time, and had been having a belated siesta
in the adjoining room.
Angry with herself she bit her lip and pushed the tumbled hair off her
forehead. He dropped on to the divan beside her and lit the inevitable
cigarette; he smoked continuously every moment he was not in the
saddle. She glanced at him covertly. He was lying with his head thrown
back against the cushions, idly blowing smoke-rings and watching them
drift towards the open door-way. And as she looked he yawned and turned
to her.