Max turned deliberately and looked at her. "I never quarrel," he said.

"But you don't seem to be on very good terms," she said.

"The boy is such a puppy," Max said.

"Oh, he isn't!" she protested, flushing swiftly and very hotly. "He--he
is the very nicest boy I know."

He laughed a little. "I believe you would have married him if I hadn't
come along just in time."

Olga turned her burning face to the field. She was silent for a space,
studying the mixed crowd assembled there, till, feeling his eyes
persistently upon her, she was at length impelled to speak.

"It is quite possible," she said in a low voice.

"Really? You like him well enough for that?" Max's voice was quite calm,
even impersonal. He spoke as one seeking information on a point that
concerned him not at all.

Again for a time Olga was silent while the deep flush slowly died out of
her face. At last with a little gesture of confidence only observable by
him, she slipped her hand under his arm. "I wasn't in love with him,
Max," she whispered. "But--I think--perhaps I could have been."

He pressed her hand to him with no visible movement. "And now?" he said.

"Ah, no, not now," she murmured, half-laughing. "You have quite put an
end to that."

They were interrupted. Colonel Bradlaw had just heard of their
engagement from Daisy, and came up to make Max's acquaintance and to
offer his pompous felicitations.

Before these were over the game began, greatly to Olga's relief. She
took a keen interest in it, and marked the adroit celerity with which
the Rajah's team took the field with anxiety. The Rajah himself was an
excellent player, and he was obviously on his mettle. Moreover, his
ponies were superior to those of the British team; and the odds were
plainly in his favour.

"Oh, he mustn't win; he mustn't!" said Olga feverishly.

"Don't get excited!" Max advised. "Follow the example of Nick's
Oriental friend in front of us. He doesn't look as if red-hot pincers
would make him lose his dignity."

"Horrid old man!" breathed Olga.

And yet Kobad Shikan was conversing with Nick with exemplary courtesy,
giving no adequate occasion for such criticism.

"Is he another _bete-noir_ of yours then?" asked Max.

She laughed a little. "Yes, I think he is detestable, and I believe he
hates us all."

"Poor old man!" said Max.

All through that afternoon of splendid Indian winter, they watched the
polo, talking, laughing, or intimately silent. All th