“By George, that’s a magnificent kit,” said a Garrison Gunner just arrived on short leave from Bombay.  “What’s it supposed to be?”

“A Polish hussar, I think,” replied a subaltern in Wellesley’s Rifles.

“No, he’s Murat, Napoleon’s cavalry leader,” said an Indian Lancer captain.

The wearer of the costume alluded to was passing them in a waltz.  He was a young man in a splendid old-time hussar uniform, a scarlet dolman thick-laced with gold, a fur-trimmed slung pelisse, tight scarlet breeches embroidered down the front of the thighs in gold, and long red Russian leather boots with gold tassels.  He was good-looking, but not in an English way, and the swarthiness of his complexion and a slight kink in his dark hair seemed to hint a trace of coloured blood.  He was plainly Israelite in appearance; and the large nose with the unmistakable racial curved nostril would become bulbous with years, the firm cheeks flabby and the plump chin double.

“That dress cost some money, I’ll bet,” said the Gunner, cheaply attired as a Pierrot.  “Just look at the gold lace.  I say, he’s got glass buttons.”

“Glass be hanged, Fergie, they’re diamonds.  Real diamonds, honour bright, Murat wore diamonds.  He was buckin’ about them in the Club to-night,” said a captain in a British infantry regiment quartered in Poona.  “That’s Rosenthal of the 2nd Hussars from Bangalore.  Son of old Rosenthal the South African multi-millionaire.  A Sheeny, of course.”

“Who’s the woman he’s dancing with?” asked the Gunner.  “Jolly good-looking she is.”

“That’s Mrs. Norton, wife of a Political somewhere in the Presidency.  Rosenthal’s always in her pocket since he met her at Mahableshwar.”

As the dance ended the many couples streamed out of the ballroom and made for the kala juggas—­the “black places,” as the sitting-out spots are appropriately termed in India from the carefully-arranged lack of light in them.  Mrs. Norton, looking very lovely as Mary, Queen of Scots, and her partner crossed the verandah and went out into the unlit garden in search of seats.  The first few they stumbled on were already occupied, a fact that the darkness prevented them from realising until they almost sat down on the occupants.  At last in a retired corner of the garden Rosenthal found a bench in a recess in the wall.  As they seated themselves he blurted out roughly: 

“I’m sick of all this, Vi.  When do you mean to give me your answer?  I’m damned if I’m going to hang on waiting much longer.  I’m fed up with India and the Army.  I mean to cut it all.”

“Well, Harry, what do you want?” asked his companion, smiling in the darkness at his vehemence.

“Want?  You.  And you know it.  I want to take you away from this rotten country.  What’s all this——­,” he waved his hand towards the lighted ballroom, “compared to Paris, Monte Carlo, Cairo, Ostend when the races are on?  Let’s go where life is worth living.  This is stagnation.”