"Thank you very much, Philip, but I've almost decided to ride Captain de Horsay's polo pony, who can't bear women, and shies when he sees one—riding him will be an experience."
"You may say so," put in Captain de Horsay's rival, "much better ride my stud bred—you'll never hold him."
"Well, I shall try, and if he bolts, he can boast that he ran away with a lady, and his character as a woman-hater will be gone. Yes, please, Captain de Horsay, I'll have Schopenhauer at half-past six."
The riding party, which consisted of Mrs. Gordon, Angel, Philip, and four men, duly came off, and though Schopenhauer ran away with the lady, she thought it great fun, but the pony's excitability and eccentricities precluded all chance of enjoying a comfortable tête-à-tête with anyone. She was, however, an admirable horsewoman, whatever her driving might be, and the black pony had undoubtedly met his match. Gascoigne took leave of the party outside the Commissioner's bungalow, and galloped straight home. As he entered his cool sitting-room, he was rather surprised to discover the station chaplain occupying his own especial arm-chair.
CHAPTER XXI
"THINK IT OVER"
The Reverend Arthur Eliot, "Padre Eliot," as his people called him, was a notable figure in society, an active, well-built man of six or seven and thirty, with a square, clean-shaven face and an exceedingly sweet smile. He never preached longer than fifteen minutes, he was an admirable bowler, played a hard set of tennis and sang a good song. All this went far to account for his popularity. He was also unmarried—though this in India is unimportant—but, more than all, he was a fearless, outspoken pastor, whose example and works did far more good amongst his flock, especially the young men, than constant services and ornate ritual.
He worked indefatigably among the soldiers and Eurasians, their wives and children, and strove to provide occupation and amusement for them all, fully endorsing Dr. Watt's opinion respecting "Satan and idle hands." In sickness and in health it was the Padre they all turned to, and many a poor soul had leaned on his arm, as it groped its way to another world. He lived plainly and simply in a little cheap bungalow, and was a near neighbour to Major Gascoigne, between whom and himself there existed a most cordial friendship. The Padre was such a busy man that Gascoigne knew, the instant he saw him, that only important business had brought him to call in the golden hours of the morning.
"Hullo, Gascoigne," he said cheerily, as he entered, "I am glad to see you back."
"Yes, thank you, only arrived last night. I've had a tremendously big job up the hills—they all seemed determined to run down into the plains; I never remember such rains," and he threw himself into a chair, and tossed his cap on the table.