They drove off at a rattling pace, presently scattering the native traffic in the open square outside the Kars-el-Nil barracks, and nearly unseating a venerable sheikh from his slow-moving donkey.
“Why don’t you get out of the way!” shouted Lord Barthampton, turning a red face to the mild brown wrinkles of the clinging rider. “Lord! these niggers make me impatient.”
“Yes,” said his companion, who always disliked a show of temper, “I notice that it’s only the English resident officials who have learned to be patient with them.”
Arrived at the Turf Club, Lord Barthampton accepted Mr. Bindane’s invitation to refresh himself with dry ginger-ale; for, during the drive, a good idea (with him something of a rarity) had come into his head. He had suddenly recollected that Kate Bindane was Lady Muriel’s bosom friend; and it had occurred to him that if he could obtain the sympathy of the husband, the wife might plead his cause. It would be better not to say very much: he would adopt the manner which, he felt sure, was natural to him, namely that of the stern, silent Englishman.
He therefore lowered his brows as he entered the club, and looked with frowning melancholy upon the groups of laughing and chattering young men about him.
“God, what a noise!” he muttered as he sank into a seat.
Mr. Bindane stared vacantly around, and waving a flapper-like hand to a passing waiter, ordered the ginger-ale as though he were totally indifferent as to whether he ever got it or not.
“I’m feeling a bit blue today,” said Lord Barthampton, leaning back gloomily in his chair.
“What’s the matter?” asked his friend.
“I’m in love,” was the short reply.