Mark, not having any reply ready, maintained a grave silence, which the speaker evidently translated into an attitude of offence towards himself, and still assuming a conciliatory tone, he said:
"Look here, Cheveril! I want to apologise in dust and ashes for making such an ass of myself the other morning. The fact is a night at Palaveram mess makes a wreck of a fellow. You must forgive and forget my nasty fit of temper, and as a proof of this do go and ask Hester for the next dance. I see she is at this moment wasting her fragrance on what I should call 'the desert air'—talking to Mrs. Fellowes!"
"Thanks for the suggestion! I shall certainly speak to both ladies with pleasure," returned Mark.
Whereupon Mr. Rayner seemed to take for granted that his favour deserved a return. He laid his hand on Mark's sleeve, saying in a coaxing tone:
"I say, Cheveril, I'm going to ask a favour of you! Will you, like a good fellow, introduce me to Mr. Worsley?—or rather, I should put it—bring me again under his notice, for we were introduced at the Club some time after my arrival in Madras. I left my card on him, but no doubt he has now forgotten the name of the humble barrister."
Mark fervently wished that the Collector of Puranapore had forgotten it, for he feared the requested introduction would prove a thorny business; in fact he quickly decided that for Mr. Rayner's own sake it must not be ventured on. Looking at him with frank, honest eyes he said quickly:
"I'm afraid I must not, Rayner, though in other circumstances nothing would have given me greater pleasure."
He felt greatly relieved when at this moment a Club acquaintance claimed his company and led him off.
"'Other circumstances,' forsooth, just like your half-caste impudence!" muttered Mr. Rayner, as he turned on his heel and moved away. The band struck up a new waltz and he remembered that Clarice Glanton had promised him this dance. Threading his way towards her, they were soon in the vortex of the shining floor. Clarice noticed that her companion's gay mood was now replaced by an absent, gloomy air. She began at once to chaff him concerning the change, and Rayner, who was often communicative when reticence would have stood him in better stead, burst forth:
"Oh, it's that young jackanapes, Cheveril, who always rubs me up the wrong way!"