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struck too hard, came swishing through the grass and rolled across the road in front of them. Elizabeth
and her aunt stopped involuntarily. But it was only a sepoy who ran to fetch the ball. Verrall had seen
the women and kept his distance.
Next morning Mrs Lackersteen paused as they came out of the gate. She had given up riding in her
rickshaw lately. At the bottom of the maidan the Military Policemen were drawn up, a dust-coloured
rank with bayonets glittering. Verrall was facing them, but not in uniform–he seldom put on his
uniform for morning parade, not thinking it necessary with mere Military Policemen. The two women
were looking at everything except Verrall, and at the same time, in some manner, were contriving to
look at him.
‘The wretched thing is,’ said Mrs Lackersteen-this was à propos de bottes, but the subject needed
no introduction–‘the wretched thing is that I’m afraid your uncle simply must go back to camp before
long.’
‘Must he really?’
‘I’m afraid so. It is so hateful in camp at this time of year! Oh, those mosquitoes!’
‘Couldn’t he stay a bit longer? A week, perhaps?’
‘I don’t see how he can. He’s been nearly a month in headquarters now. The firm would be furious
if they heard of it. And of course both of us will have to go with him. Such a bore! The mosquitoes–
simply terrible!’
Terrible indeed! To have to go away before Elizabeth had so much as said how-do-you-do to
Verrall! But they would certainly have to go if Mr Lackersteen went. It would never do to leave him
to himself. Satan finds some mischief still, even in the jungle. A ripple like fire ran down the line of
sepoys; they were unfixing bayonets before marching away. The dusty rank turned left, saluted, and
marched off in column of fours. The orderlies were coming from the police lines with the ponies and
polo-sticks. Mrs Lackersteen took a heroic decision.
‘I think,’ she said, ‘we’ll take a short-cut across the maidan. It’s so much quicker than going right
round by the road.’
It was quicker by about fifty yards, but no one ever went that way on foot, because of the grassseeds
that got into one’s stockings. Mrs Lackersteen plunged boldly into the grass, and then, dropping
even the pretence of making for the Club, took a bee-line for Verrall, Elizabeth following. Either
woman would have died on the rack rather than admit that she was doing anything but take a short-cut.
Verrall saw them coming, swore, and reined in his pony. He could not very well cut them dead now
that they were coming openly to accost him. The damned cheek of these women! He rode slowly
towards them with a sulky expression on his face, chivvying the polo-ball with small strokes.
‘Good morning, Mr Verrall!’ Mrs Lackersteen called out in a voice of saccharine, twenty yards
away.
‘Morning!’ he returned surlily, having seen her face and set her down as one of the usual scraggy
old boiling-fowls of an Indian station.
The next moment Elizabeth came level with her aunt. She had taken off her spectacles and was
swinging her Terai hat in her hand. What did she care for sunstroke? She was perfectly aware of the
prettiness of her cropped hair. A puff of wind–oh, those blessed breaths of wind, coming from