"Look out, he'll hear you!" said Norah, laughing. "He—"
"What talk is this?" said a cheerful voice; and Ram Das, very plump, very hot and very beaming, came in at the kitchen door, and stood looking at them. "I sent this young man to the li'l meesis, for that he was hurt and in pain, and I know the fat woman is kind, and has the brassic-acid." He glanced at Lal Chunder's bandaged wrist, and shot a quick question at him in their own tongue, to which the other responded. The old man turned back to Norah, not without dignity.
"We thank the l'il meesis," he said. "Lal Chunder is as my son: he cannot speak, but he will not forget."
"Oh, that's all right," said Norah, turning a lively red. "It wasn't anything, really, Ram Das—and his wrist was terribly sore. You'll both camp here to-night, won't you? And have some tea—I'm sure you want it, it's so hot."
"It will be good," said Ram Das, gratefully, sitting down. Then voices and the sound of hoofs and the chink of bits came from outside; and presently Mr. Linton and the boys came in, hot and thirsty.
Cecil's eyebrows went up as he beheld his cousin carrying a cup to the stout old Hindu.
"It's the most extraordinary place I was ever at," he told himself later, dressing for dinner, in the seclusion of his own room. From the garden below came shouts and laughter, as Jim engaged Norah and Wally in a strenuous set on the tennis court. "Absolutely no class limits whatever, and no restrictions—why, she kept me waiting for my second cup while she looked after that fat old black in the dirty white turban! As for the boys—childish young hoodlums. Well, thank goodness I'm not condemned to Billabong all my days!" With which serene reflection Mr. Cecil Linton adjusted his tie nicely, smoothed a refractory strand of hair in his forelock, and went down to dinner.