Oswald did his best to lure Troop from his administrative preoccupations into general topics. But apparently some one whom Troop respected had warned him against general topics. Oswald lugged and pushed the talk towards religion, Aunt Phyllis helping, but they came up against a stone wall. “My people are Church of England,” said Troop, intimating thereby that his opinions were banked with the proper authorities. It was not for him to state them. And in regard to politics, “All my people are Conservative.” One evening Oswald showed him a portfolio of drawings from various Indian temples, and suggested something of the complex symbolism of the figures. Troop thought it was “rather unhealthy.” But—turning from these monstrosities—he had hopes for India. “My cousin tells me, sir, that cricket and polo are spreading very rapidly there.” “Polo,” said Oswald, “is an Indian game. They have played it for centuries. It came from Persia originally.” But Troop was unable to imagine Indians riding horses; he had the common British delusion that the horse and the ship were both invented in our islands and that all foreign peoples are necessarily amateurs at such things. “I thought they rode elephants,” said Troop with quiet conviction....
Troop was not only a great experience for Oswald, he also exercised the always active mind of Joan very considerably.
Peter, it seemed, hadn’t even mentioned her beforehand.
“Hullo!” said Troop at the sight of her. “Got a sister?”
“Foster-sister,” said Peter, minimizing the thing. “Joan, this is Troop.”
Joan regarded him critically. “Can he play D.P.?”
“Not one of my games,” said Troop, who was chary of all games not usually played.
“It’s a game like Snap,” said Peter with an air of casual contempt, and earned a bright scowl.
For a day or so Troop and Joan kept aloof, watching one another. Then she caught him out rather neatly twice at single wicket cricket; he had a weakness for giving catches to point and she had observed it. “Caught!” he cried approvingly. Also she snicked and slipped and at last slogged boldly at his patronizing under-arm bowling. “Here’s a Twister,” he said, like an uncle speaking to a child.
Joan smacked it into the cedar. “Twister!” quoth Joan, running.