Every now and then something familiar in her tone, the poise of her head, the play of her eyes startled him. And the less “anything” happened the better. But if his frame was immature, his looks were not so. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. In some cases they were ground almost to powder; in others, driven deeply into the earth, as if discharged from a piece of ordnance. “There are some people,” he said at last, “who seem fated to carry on their shoulders the burdens of other people. "No, I don't.
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