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inscriptions and even sitting on a grave stone under aweeping willow and letting her imagination roam. The graveyard at Satipur was especially evocative. Although Satipur had always been a small station for the British, quite a few of them had died there over the years; and bodies were also brought in from other districts with no Christian cemetery of their own. Most of the graves were of infants and children, but there were also several dating from the Mutiny when a gallant band of British officers had died defending their women and children. The newest grave was that of the Saunders’ baby, and the Italian angel was the newest, brightest monument.
    The first time Olivia saw this baby’s grave, it had a powerful effect on her. That evening Douglas found her lying face down across their bed; she had not allowed the servants to come in and open the shutters, so the room was all closed in and stifling and Olivia herself bathed in tears and perspiration.
    â€œOh Douglas,” she said, “what if we have a baby?”; and then she cried: “Yes and what if it should die!”
    It took him a long time to soothe her. He had to forget his files for that one evening and devote himself entirely to her. He said everything he could think of. He told her that nowadays babies did not die so often. He himself had been born in India, and his mother had had two other children here and all of them had thrived. It was true, in the old days a lot of children did die – his great-grandmother had lost five of her nine children; but that had been a long time ago.
    â€œWhat about Mrs. Saunders’ baby?”
    â€œThat could have happened anywhere, darling. She had – complications – or something –”
    â€œI’ll have complications. I’ll die. The baby and I both.” When he tried to protest, she insisted: “No, if we stay here,we’ll die. I know it. You’ll see.” When she saw the expression on his face, she made an effort to pull herself together. She even tried to smile. She put up her hand to stroke his cheek: “But you want to stay.”
    He said eagerly “It’s just that it’s all new to you. It’s easy for the rest of us because we all know what to expect. But you don’t, my poor darling.” He kissed her as she lay there resting against his chest. “You know, I’d been talking about this very thing with Beth Crawford. (No, darling, you mustn’t think that way about Beth, she’s a good sort). She knew before you came how difficult it would be for you. And you know what she said after you came? She said she was sure that someone as sensitive and intelligent as you are – you see she does appreciate you, darling – that you would surely be . . . all right here. That you – well, this is what she said – that you’d come to feel about India the way we all do. Olivia? Are you asleep, darling?”
    She wasn’t really but she liked lying against his chest, both of them shrouded within their white mosquito net. The moon had risen from behind the peach tree and its light came pouring in through the open windows. When Douglas thought she was asleep, he hugged her tighter and could hardly stifle a small cry – as if it were too much happiness for him to have her there in his arms, flooded and shining in Indian moonlight.
    Next day Olivia went to visit Mrs. Saunders. She took flowers, fruit, and a heart full of tender pity for her. But although Olivia’s feelings towards Mrs. Saunders had changed, Mrs. Saunders herself had not. She was still the same unattractive woman lying in bed in a bleak, gloomy house. Olivia, always susceptible to atmosphere, had tostruggle against a feeling of distaste. She did so hate a slovenly house, and Mrs. Saunders’ house was very slovenly; so were her servants. No one bothered to put Olivia’s pretty flowers in a vase – perhaps there was no vase? There