“Neither.”

“Well, they’re spotted.”

“Dogs, perhaps.”

Ignoring the execrable repartee, the boy turned completely round to Leonie.

“By the way, Lady Hickle, if you ever go to Benares, don’t forget to get off en route and visit the tomb of what’s-its-name, it’s quite near—­oh!  I forget—­but it’s on one of this fellow’s father’s estates.  They don’t let many people go and see it—­afraid, I expect, of paper bags but if you do go you’ll find an elephant or two hanging about to take you to the place in state.  He’s, the native prince, got some of the finest elephants in the whole of this mosquito-ridden land—­makes a hobby of them.”

“What happened to the original tiger?”

“Noah pushed him into the ark.”

The lad grinned, and offered his cigarette to Leonie, who shook her head.

“Oh! stop fooling, Dean.  Did a sahib manage to trap the brute, or what?”

“Yes! and sent it across to Blighty and shoved it into the Zoo.  They’re frightfully sick about that tiger being in a cage; they wouldn’t have minded a sahib killing it for the good of mankind it seems, but putting it behind bars is an insult to some god, or something like that.  Are you any good as a gun, dear lady?”

Leonie smiled at the tardiness of such an important question.

“Fair,” she said, refusing an unkempt pot of marmalade as she turned to Cuxson.  “I used to pass most of my holidays with the Wetherbournes, you know them, don’t you?  They were awfully keen on sports, and had a rifle-range, but I could beat them any day with a revolver.”

“That doesn’t matter, Lady Hickle,” said the lad blithely.  “All you’ll have to do’ll be to bob up and down in the tiger-grass in the approved style; keep your trigger away from the bush, and so as to feel thoroughly creepy, your eye out for pugs; which, in case some of you don’t know, means tiger-tracks, not the dog with the beastly curly tail—­and—­oh, jolly!—­here come the Talbots—­just in time for the khubber which means tiger-news for those whose Hindustani is not as perfect as mine.  Mrs. Talbot, don’t pass us by, we have plenty of room and some superb sausages.”

Edna Talbot laughingly sank into a chair next Leonie whom she liked, and immediately became enthralled in the discussion.

Honest, sweet little woman, with an honest plodding husband in a native regiment, inhabiting the dreary crumbling fort, without a murmur, whilst living in hopes of better things to come.  Soft-voiced, considerate towards her native servants who worshipped her, one of the finest shots in India, and a true upholder of the British Raj in word, action, and clothes.

A perfect oasis, in fact, among the desert of her sisters, who storm in season and out at their native staff, before whom they likewise show themselves in ill-considered neglige, with their unbrushed hair down their backs, and their bare feet thrust into the evening shoes of last night’s dance.