IV
HARRINGTON'S
Breakfast was over; Philippa was feeding the dogs. Philippa's cousin, Captain Andrew Larpent, R.E., was looking out of the window with that air of unemployment that touches the conscience of a host like a spur. Andrew did not smoke, a serious matter in a male guest, which means that there are, for him, no moments of lethargy, and that, when he idles, his idleness stands stark in the foreground against a clear sky, a reproach and a menace to his entertainers.
It was a cold day about the middle of September, and there was an unrest among the trees that commemorated a night of storm; the gravel was wet, the lawn-tennis ground was strewn with sycamore leaves.
"I suppose you'll say I'm drunk," said Andrew, "but the fact remains that I see two Natives coming up the drive."
In the green tunnel that was the avenue at Shreelane were two dark figures; both were dressed in frock-coats, of which the tails fluttered meagrely in the wind; their faces were black; with the half-hearted blackness of a leg in a black silk stocking; one of them wore a tall hat.
"This is what comes of leaving Calcutta without paying your bills," I suggested; "or perhaps it's a Missionary Deputation——"
The Natives advanced into the middle distance.
"It's the Sweep!" exclaimed Philippa. "It's my beloved Cantillon!"
She flung open the window.