So, instead of executing a ‘wobble’ of the first magnitude, he proceeded to clinch matters by writing first to his father, then to a Calcutta firm of jewellers for a selection of rings.

But he wavered badly over facing the ordeal of wholesale congratulations—­the chaff of the men, the reiterate inanities of the women.

On Tuesday, Rose warned him that her mother was dying to give a dinner, to invite certain rival mothers, and announce her news with due eclat.

“Hand us round, in fact,” she added serenely, “with the chocs and Elvas plums!—­No!  Don’t flare up!” Her fingers caressed the back of his hand.  “In mercy to you, I diplomatically sat down upon the idea, and remained seated till it was extinct.  So you’re saved—­by your affianced wife, whom you don’t seem in a frantic hurry to acknowledge...!”

He caught her to him, and kissed her passionately.  “You know it’s not that——­”

“Yes, I know ... you’re just terror-struck of all those women.  But if you will do these things, you must stand up to the consequences—­like a man.”

He jerked up his head.  “No fear.  We’ll say to-morrow, or Thursday.”

“I’ll be merciful, and say Thursday.  It’s to be announced this afternoon.  Have you mentioned it—­to any one?”

“Only to Lance.”

A small sound between her teeth made him turn quickly.

“Anything hurt you?”

“You’ve quick ears!  Only a pin-prick.”  She explored her blouse for the offending pin.  “Do you tell each other everything—­you two?”

“Pretty well—­as men go.”

“You’re a wonderful pair.”

She sighed and was silent a moment.  Then, “Shall it be a ride on Thursday?” she asked, giving his arm a small squeeze.

“Rather.  There are Brigade Sports; but I could cry off.  We’ll take our tea out to Shadera, have a peaceful time there, and finish up at the Hall.”

So it was arranged, and so it befell, though not exactly according to design.

* * * * *

On Thursday they rode leisurely out through the heat and dusty haze, away from bungalows and the watered Mall, through a village alive with shrill women, naked babies, and officious pariahs, who kept Terry furiously occupied:  on past the city, over the bridge of boats that spans the Ravi, till they came to the green secluded garden where the Emperor Jehangir sleeps, heedless of infidels who, generation after generation, have picnicked and made love in the sacred precincts of his tomb.

Arrived at the gardens, they tethered the horses, drank thermos tea and ate sugared cakes, sitting on the wide wall that looked across the river and the plain to the dim huddled city beyond.  And Roy talked of Bramleigh Beeches in April, till he felt home-sick for primroses and the cuckoo and the smell of mown grass; while, before his actual eyes, the terrible sun of India hung suspended in the haze, like a platter of molten brass, till the turning earth, settling to sleep, shouldered it almost out of sight.