Before these were over the game began, greatly to Olga’s relief.  She took a keen interest in it, and marked the adroit celerity with which the Rajah’s team took the field with anxiety.  The Rajah himself was an excellent player, and he was obviously on his mettle.  Moreover, his ponies were superior to those of the British team; and the odds were plainly in his favour.

“Oh, he mustn’t win; he mustn’t!” said Olga feverishly.

“Don’t get excited!” Max advised.  “Follow the example of Nick’s Oriental friend in front of us.  He doesn’t look as if red-hot pincers would make him lose his dignity.”

“Horrid old man!” breathed Olga.

And yet Kobad Shikan was conversing with Nick with exemplary courtesy, giving no adequate occasion for such criticism.

“Is he another bete-noir of yours then?” asked Max.

She laughed a little.  “Yes, I think he is detestable, and I believe he hates us all.”

“Poor old man!” said Max.

All through that afternoon of splendid Indian winter, they watched the polo, talking, laughing, or intimately silent.  All through the afternoon Nick remained with Kobad Shikan, airily marking time.  And all through the afternoon Noel distinguished himself, whirling hither and thither, hotly, keenly, untiringly pressing for the victory.  If the Rajah were on his mettle, so undoubtedly was he.  He had never played so brilliantly before, and the wild applause he gained for himself should have been nectar to his soul.  Yet to many it almost seemed that he did not hear it.  He laughed throughout the game, but it was with set teeth, and once in a close encounter with the Rajah his eyes flamed open fury into the face of the Oriental as the latter swept the ball out of his reach.

It was a splendid fight, but the British team were outmatched.  In the end, after a fierce struggle, they were beaten by a single goal.

Victors and vanquished came to the pavilion later and had tea with their supporters.  But Noel did not return to Olga’s side.  He kept at a distance, surrounded by an enthusiastic group of fellow-subalterns.

Peggy, restrained by her mother from joining him, watched him with longing eyes; but she watched in vain.  Noel did not so much as glance in their direction, and very soon he departed altogether with a brother-officer.

“Wyndham seems down on his luck,” observed Major Forsyth, Noel’s Major, to Daisy, to whom he had just brought tea.  “He’s no need to be.  He played like a dozen devils.”

She smiled with that touch of tenderness that all women had for Noel.  “I expect he doesn’t like being beaten, poor boy.”

“He hasn’t learned the art of taking it gracefully,” said the Major.  “But he shouldn’t show temper.  It’s a sign of coltishness that I don’t care for.”

“Ah, well, he’s young,” said Daisy, with a sigh.  “He’ll get over that.”

Her thoughts dwelt regretfully upon the young officer as she returned with Peggy.  She believed that she understood Noel better than anyone else did just then.