Still, why had he not discovered it before? Time, opportunity—all had been favourable. He supposed it was that the recollection of Cynthia Daintree had left a bitter taste in his mouth, and that he had been passing through a misogynistic stage accordingly.
“I don’t believe these ‘budmashes’ are as quiet as they seem,” Tarleton was saying. “Or if they are, it’s because they are hatching devilment. I’ve been longer among them than you have, Raynier, and Mushîm Khan isn’t the sort to turn into a lamb all of a sudden, as he seems to have done lately.”
They were talking over Raynier’s visit to the Nawab, and Tarleton, as usual, was contradictious.
“What is the Nawab like, Mr Raynier?” said Hilda Clive.
“Rather a fine-looking man—in fact, very.”
“And is his palace very splendid?”
Raynier stared.
“Very splendid?” he repeated—“Oh, I see! The idea is quite a natural one. But, as a matter of fact, he hasn’t got any ‘palace’ at all. He lives in a mud-walled village.”
“No. Not really?”
“Miss Clive thinks he ought to wear a crown and go about blazing with jewels,” said Tarleton.