A few paces off, the dyspeptic Judge was discussing ‘the situation’ with his host—­a large unwieldy man, so nervous of his own bulk and unready wit that only the discerning few discovered the sensitive, friendly spirit very completely hidden under a bushel.  Roy, who had liked him at sight, felt vaguely sorry for him.  He seemed a fish out of water in his own home; overwhelmed by the florid, assured personality of his wife.

They were the last, of course; nearly five minutes late.  Trust Roy.  Only four other guests; Dr Ethel Wemyss, M.B., lively and clever and new to the country; Major and Mrs Garten of the Sikhs, with a stolid good-humoured daughter, who unfailingly wore the same frock and the same disarming smile.

The Deputy Commissioner’s wife permitted herself few military intimates.  But she had come in touch with Mrs Garten over a dhobi’s[19] chit and a recipe for pumelo gin.  Both women were consumedly Anglo-Indian.  All their values were social;—­pay, promotion, prestige.  All their lamentations pitched in the same key:—­everything dearer, servants ‘impossible,’ hospitality extinct, with every one saving and scraping to get Home.  Both were deeply versed in bazaar prices and the sins of native servants.  Hence, in due course, a friendship (according to Mrs Ranyard) ‘broad based on jharrons[20] and charcoal and kerosene’!

The two were lifting up their voices in unison over the mysterious shortage of kerosene (that arch-sinner Mool Chand said none was coming into the country) when dinner was announced; and Talbot Hayes—­inevitably—­offered his arm to Miss Arden.

Roy, consigned to Dr Wemyss, could only pray heaven for the next best thing—­Miss Arden on his left.  Instead, amazedly, he found himself promoted to a seat beside her mother, who still further amazed him by treating him to a much larger share of her attention than the law of the dinner-table prescribed.  Her talk, in the main, was local and personal; and Roy simply let it flow; his eyes flagrantly straying down the table towards Miss Arden and Hayes, who seemed very intimate this evening.

Suddenly he found himself talking about Home.  It began with gardens.  Mrs Elton had a passion for them, as her malis[21] knew to their cost; and the other day a friend had told her that somebody said Mr Sinclair had a lovely place at Home, with a wonderful old garden——?

Mr Sinclair admitted as much, with masculine brevity.

Undeterred, she drew out the sentimental stop:—­the charm of a real old English garden!  Out here, one only used the word by courtesy.  Laborites, of course, were specially favoured; but do what one would, it was never quite the same thing—­was it...?

Not quite, Roy agreed amicably—­and wondered what the joke was down there.  He supposed Miss Arden must have had some say in the geography of the table....