"Who'll play polo this evening?" he asked.
Singleton promised he would.
"I'll walk back with you," Tomlinson said.
They started to leave, but catching sight of an orderly with a mail-bag, Singleton let Tomlinson go on alone.
"See you at six for polo, Tommy; and I say, send any of our fellows in that you see. Tell them the post is in," he called as he saw Jim's long, loose-jointed stride across the road.
A blazing sun beat down on Jim as he crossed to the mess. The April weather was anticipating India's most wearing heat. But only vaguely he noted the ominous lead-colored sky, with its promise of dust storms. The green of England filled his vision. Since the days in the hospital, his thoughts had recurred incessantly to Diana. A picture in an illustrated paper, picked up in his ward, showed him Miss Diana Marjoribanks as a beautiful young girl—little Diana no longer. There was the same Madonna face, but more exquisitely fair than the child he had left had promised to be. He hardly cared to admit to himself how much the picture had stirred him.
When he entered the mess he found the men in groups, absorbed in their letters. Singleton and Dunlap both called to him.
"There are two for you, Jim."
Letters did not often come his way. When he first left England, several child's letters had come from Diana—these he had answered. He never heard from Henry, and his aunt wrote seldom.
"Dinningfold." He saw the familiar old postmark. It was from Lady Elizabeth, then. Boyishly, he fingered its ample thickness. It was good of her to write such a budget, he thought, as he tore it open. The chatter of voices about him fell unheeding on his ears as the men read their letters.