Next in order of defilement to the sweepers,—­or, as some particularly righteous folk with inside reservations on the road to Heaven firmly insist, even beneath the sweepers, and possibly beneath the jackals—­come the English, looking boldly on whatever their eyes desire and tasting out of curiosity the fruit of more than one forbidden tree, but obsessed by an amazing if perverted sense of duty.  They rule the land, largely by what they idolize as “luck,” which consists of tolerance for things they do not understand.  Understanding one another rather well, they are more merciless to their own offenders than is Brahman to chandala, for they will hardly let them live.  But they are a people of destiny, and India has prospered under them.

In among the English something after the fashion of grace notes in the bars of music—­enlivening, if sharp at times—­come occasional Americans, turning up in unexpected places for unusual reasons, and remaining—­ because it is no man’s business to interfere with them.  Unlike the English, who approach all quarters through official doors and never trespass without authority, the Americans have an embarrassing way of choosing their own time and step, taking officialdom, so to speak, in flank.  It is to the credit of the English that they overlook intrusion that they would punish fiercely if committed by unauthorized folk from home.

So when the Blaines, husband and wife, came to Sialpore in Rajputana without as much as one written introduction, nobody snubbed them.  And when, by dint of nothing less than nerve nor more than ability to recognize their opportunity, they acquired the lease of the only vacant covetable house nobody was very jealous, especially when the Blaines proved hospitable.

It was a sweet little nest of a house with a cool stone roof, set in a rather large garden of its own on the shoulder of the steep hill that overlooks the city.  A political dependent of Yasmini’s father had built it as a haven for his favorite paramour when jealousy in his seraglio had made peace at home impossible.  Being connected with the Treasury in some way, and suitably dishonest, he had been able to make a luxurious pleasaunce of it; and he had taste.

But when Yasmini’s father died and his nephew Gungadhura succeeded him as maharajah he made a clean sweep of the old pension and employment list in order to enrich new friends, so the little nest on the hill became deserted.  Its owner went into exile in a neighboring state and died there out of reach of the incoming politician who naturally wanted to begin business by exposing the scandalous remissness of his predecessor.  The house was acquired on a falling market by a money-lender, who eventually leased it to the Blaines on an eighty per cent. basis—­ a price that satisfied them entirely until they learned later about local proportion.