Arrived in the other tent—­feeling stupidly giddy and in pain—­he sank down on the first available chair.  Friendly spirits ordered drinks, and soothed him with compliments.  A thundering good fight.  To be so narrowly beaten by Desmond was an achievement in itself; and so forth.

Lance and Paul, still surrounded, were at the other end of the long table; and a very fair wedge of thirsty, perspiring manhood filled the intervening space.  Roy did not feel like stirring.  He felt more like drinking half a dozen ‘pegs’ in succession.  But soon he was aware of a move going on.  The prizes, of course; and he had two to collect.  By a special decree, the Tournament prize would be given first.  So he need not hurry.  The tent was emptying swiftly.  He must screw himself up to congratulations....

The screwing was still in process when Lance crossed the tent—­nearly empty now—­and stopped in front of him.

“See here, Roy—­I apologise,” he said hurriedly, in a low tone.  “I lost my temper.  Not fair play——­”

Instantly Roy was on his feet, shoulders squared, the last spark of antagonism extinct.

“If it comes to that, I lost mine too,” he admitted, and Lance smiled.

“You did!  But—­I began it.”  There was an instant of painful hesitation, then, “It—­it was an accident—­the favour——­”

“Oh, that’s all right,” Roy muttered, embarrassed and overcome.

“It’s not all right.  It put you off.”  Another pause.  “Will you take half the Purse?”

“Not I.”  Glory apart, he knew very well how badly Lance needed the money.  “It’s yours.  And you deserve it.”

They both spoke low and rapidly, as if on a matter of business, for there were still some men at the other end of the tent.  But at that, to Roy’s amazement, Lance held out his hand.

“Thanks, old man.  Shake hands—­here, where the women can see us.  You bet ... they twigged....  And they chatter so infernally....  Unfair—­on Miss Arden——­”

Roy felt himself reddening.  It was Lance all over—­that chivalrous impulse.  So they shook hands publicly, to the astonishment of interested kitmutgars, who had been betting freely, and were marvelling afresh at the strange ways of Sahibs.

“I’ll doctor your bruises to-night!” said Lance.  “And I accept, gratefully, your share of the purse.  She won’t relish—­giving it to the wrong ’un.”  The last, barely audible, came out in a rush, with a jerk of the head that Roy knew well.  “Come along and see how prettily she does it.”

To Roy’s infatuated eyes, she did it inimitably.  Standing there, tall and serene, in her pale-coloured gown and bewitching hat, instinct with the mysterious authority of beauty, she handed the prize to Desmond with a little gracious speech of congratulation, adding, “It was a close fight; but you won it—­fairly.”

Roy started.  Did Lance notice the lightest imaginable stress on the word?