"A cigar is one's only comfort in a dull affair like this," he remarked, as they resumed their leisurely promenade. "Awful wine, wasn't it?"
"Awful. The Colonel is beginning to put on the curb—or his lady. It's the same thing."
"It will be better when the club comes into existence," said Webb, blowing consolatory clouds of smoke into the quiet air.
"It is to be hoped so. Spunky devil, that Travers. Wonder how he means to do the trick. He knows how to pick out a pretty partner, anyhow."
"That Cary girl? Yes. Wait till the heat has dried her up, though. She'll be a scarecrow, like the rest of them. By the way, what were her people?"
"Heaven knows—something in the D.P.W., I believe. The mother was dressed in the queerest kit."
"I heard her talking about 'the gentlemen,'" remarked Webb, laughing, as they went up the steps of the bungalow together.
The Memorial was once more left to its shadows and silence. At the edge of the compound a group of natives peered through the fencing, watching and listening. Their dark faces expressed neither hatred nor admiration, nor sorrow, nor pleasure—at most, a dull wonder.
When they were tired of watching, they passed noiselessly on their way.