"Looks charming?" she said prettily, "sweet of you to try and comfort me, dear; it's Paris I know, but such a rag now, poor old pink. So annoying of my husband not to send my boxes up in time;" and her friend, as she sympathetically agreed, wondered how dear Mrs. T. could be such a liar, for had not she—and for that matter all Shiraz—observed the lady's dhirzi[#] stitching away at the despised pink for the last three days in the Twiddell verandah? She could even have told to an anna what the said garment had cost, and the wrangle there had been over the price. She further wondered, incidentally, whether Jack Twiddell had yet paid his club bill at Riwala, for Mrs. Snorter's husband was the secretary of that institution, and told his wife many valuable secrets anent mutual friends.
[#] Native tailor.
Lieutenant Crawler of the 1st Kala Jugas was evidently in his element as, blade of grass in mouth, he discoursed on the merits of the rival teams. Crawler, it is true, bestrode a pony for the first time in his life six months ago on joining his regiment, but he had a good deal to say on the subject of horsemanship, and was expressing his doubts as to the "hands" of most of the competitors. He went on to compare polo with hunting, and indulged in personal reminiscences of the Quorn and Pytchley, of which packs he had read in the papers. Important-looking officials for the nonce laid aside cares of State, and turned condescending ear to the trivial discourse of military acquaintances, or beamed seductively on feminine admirers. The Maharajah Sahib, his retinue of sable followers grouped around him, looked calmly on the scene, now and again bending courteously to some female flatterer, the expression in his dark eyes contrasting strangely with his respectful, almost humble, salutations.
There was a stir—and sudden commotion amongst the crowd. Polo was about to begin, and away surged the chattering throng, making hurriedly for the rows of chairs lining one side of the ground.
The game to be played this afternoon promised to be an exciting one, the rival players being a scratch quartette, calling themselves the Dragon Flies, and four of the 1st Lancers who happened to be in Shiraz on leave. The Lancers were in no sense representative of their corps, one of their number only, Ferrers, the captain, being a member of the regular regimental team, but, as they were better mounted than their opponents, and having had a fair amount of practice together while in Shiraz, they were quite confident of success. The other three were Kinley, Carruthers, and Graeme. The Dragon Flies, however, were opponents not to be despised. True, their ponies were slow in comparison with those of the Lancers, but against this they were handy and well trained, and knew the game as well as their owners. The men also, though hailing from different regiments, and being at the disadvantage of not knowing each other's idiosyncrasies, were with one exception individually far better players than their adversaries, Major Rocket, the captain, being generally considered one of the best Number Twos, if not the best, in India.
The above-mentioned exception was the "One"—Lieutenant Gubbins of the 105th Native Foot, who, though extremely keen, was a far from expert performer, and had a rooted aversion to keeping in his proper place. He had promised, however, on this afternoon to amend his ways, to leave the tempting ball to Number Two, and devote his energies solely to hampering the back—and these promises Gubbins, before starting, had every intention of keeping.
Some distance away from the chattering crowd, watching the saddling of a fine grey Arab pony, stood Graeme and his wife Lucy, for despite the scoffing incredulity of those who knew, or thought they knew, Hector the proposal made that November evening—nearly two years ago—had been duly ratified, and after an engagement of six months the two had been quietly married in Radford church.
There had been opposition, bitter opposition too. Sir Thomas, the General, indeed, the whole of Lucy's relations, having resolutely opposed the match. In vain, however, their efforts had merely succeeded in turning Hector's somewhat indefinite intentions into a fixed resolve. Even Lucy was surprised at the strength of purpose shown by her lover, and, warmly seconding him, between them they finally overcame her father's opposition, though never that of her uncle. The latter for a long time refused to meet Hector, and, but for the reluctance to cause pain to his niece, would undoubtedly have refused to appear at the wedding. So far, the general anticipation of disaster had been singularly at fault; the marriage had turned out a happy one, Hector proving himself a good and considerate husband, while, far from sliding back into former ways, he had flown to the other extreme and become a Puritan, bitterly intolerant of even the mildest lapse from conjugal duty. This, as might be imagined, had not served to increase his popularity, and it was almost universally agreed that, though objectionable enough before his marriage, since that event he had become altogether impossible, and great was the commiseration bestowed on that dear pretty little woman who had the misfortune to be tied to such an ill-conditioned prig.
"The dear pretty little woman," however, stood in no need of their sympathy, being, on the contrary, perfectly and entirely happy. She adored Hector, admired him for his principles, so different from those of other men, and, generally speaking, thought him the most wonderful person in the world. At the present moment she was listening with interest, her arm through his, as he discoursed on polo, more particularly on the part he was likely to take in the forthcoming contest.
Hector's love for this game, though of somewhat recent growth, had become the temporary master-passion of his existence, and to the acquirement of proficiency in it he had flung himself with the violence and concentration of purpose that were usual with him on taking up a new hobby. At home, it is true, he had shown no interest in the subject; it was a feeble game, he had been wont to declare, and one much too easy to play to be worth the learning. Since his arrival in India, however, he had come to regard the matter in a different light. Here everybody played polo; indeed, it was looked upon as the one serious business of life, bar love-making, and straightway it had become Hector's business too. Never would he admit that there could be anything in the way of sports or games at which he could not excel if he chose, and he set to work to provide himself with ponies, first-class tournament ponies too; he would look at nothing else. He had now six, bought at a price far beyond his means, the purchase of which had necessitated the assistance of Ram Lai, the native banker of Riwala, and this done, and all other pursuits abandoned for the nonce, he laid himself out to learn the game.