"A fine Club, is it not?" said Colonel Tallboys with the air of a proud proprietor. "The oldest in India; we can dine three hundred, the reading-room is the same size, now we have an annexe—a ladies' club—'The Morghi Khana'—where they assemble for tea, and bridge."
"You don't allow them in here! Eh?"
"No, these premises are sacred—we are uncommonly strict and exclusive. Do you notice the servants' quaint dress? Real old Madras fashion, and the quantities of chutney offered—another speciality—but soon you will know your way about, and become acquainted with our bar trick, and Saturday's prunes and cream."
When cheese and fruit had been despatched, a move was made to the great lounge; here, reclining in a long chair, they discovered a disconsolate young man, whose bowed head and limp attitude proclaimed some recent affliction.
"Hullo, Byng, you seem a bit off colour, what's up?" demanded Colonel Tallboys; "all the ponies gone lame, or dead?"
"Nearly as bad," answered Captain Byng—A.D.C. to His Excellency the Governor—as he rose and unfolded a tall, slim figure; "Grafton has broken his arm playing some fool's trick over the mess table, and he was our mainstay."
"By Jove, that's a calamity! But"—looking round—"here is a substitute for you; my cousin, Captain Mallender, who arrived yesterday, plays polo. Geoffrey, this is Captain Byng, captain of the Chaffinches."
"Mallender! You are Mallender of the Warlocks, I'm sure," said the A.D.C. eagerly. "You played back in the team; I've seen you at Barnes and Hurlingham,—this is a piece of luck!"
"But I'm quite out of practice," Mallender declared; "haven't had a stick in my hand for months! Besides, I've no ponies. You are very kind, but I'm no use."
Long before he had ceased to speak his protest was drowned in an animated duet between two voices, discussing ways and means.