the polished floor was uncovered; the rest
carpeted and furnished, for lookers-on. Here Mrs Elton still diffused
her exuberant air of patronage; sailing majestically from group to group
of her recent guests, and looking more than life size in lavender satin
besprinkled with old lace.

Roy hurried past, lest she discover him; and, from the security of an
arched alcove, scanned the more interesting half of the Hall. There went
little Mrs Hunter-Ranyard, a fluffy pussy-cat person, with soft eyes and
soft manners--and claws. She was one of those disconnected wives whom he
was beginning to recognise as a feature of the country: unobtrusively
owned by a dyspeptic-looking Divisional Judge; hospitable and lively,
and an infallible authority on other people's private affairs. Like too
many modern Anglo-Indians, she prided herself on keeping airily apart
from the country of her exile. Natives gave her 'the creeps.' Useless to
argue. Her retort was unvarying and unanswerable. "East is East--and I'm
_not_. It's a country of horrors, under a thin layer of tinsel. Don't
talk to _me_----!" Lance Desmond had achieved fame among the subalterns
by christening her the Banter-Wrangle; but he liked her well enough, on
the whole, to hope she would never find him out.

She whirled past now, on the arm of Talbot Hayes, senior Assistant
Commissioner; an exceedingly superior person who shared her views about
'the country.' Catching Roy's eye, she feigned exaggerated surprise and
fluttered a friendly hand.

His response was automatic. He had just discovered Miss Arden--with
Lance, of course--looking supreme in a moon-coloured gown with a dull
gold sash carelessly knotted on one side. Her graceful hat was of gold
tissue, unadorned. Near the edge of the brim lay one yellow rose; and a
rope of amber beads hung well below her waist.

Roy--son of Lilamani--had an artist's eye for details of dress, for
harmony of tone and line, which this girl probably achieved by mere
feminine instinct. The fool he was, to have come so late. When they
stopped, he would catch her and plead for an extra, at least.

Meantime, a pity to waste this one; and there was poor little Miss
Delawny sitting out, as usual, in her skimpy pink frock and black hat,
trying so hard not to look forlorn that he felt sorry for her. She was
tacitly barred by most of the men because she was 'cafe au lait';--a
delicate allusion to the precise amount of Indian blood in her veins.

He had