Not the shadow of a chance did he have to broach the momentous subject to Olive. Davis and his wife were so hospitable that they never left Peter and Olive alone for one moment.
At eleven, with his mind still unburdened, Mostyn returned to his quarters.
At dawn, after a restless night, he arose, bathed, shaved, and dressed, and went out.
He was by no means the only early riser. The white population of Pangawani make a point of getting exercise before the heat of the tropical day. Watching from afar Peter saw signs of activity at the Davis's bungalow. Native grooms were leading three ponies round to the front of the veranda.
Five minutes later Peter strolled, outwardly unconcerned, past the house, just as Olive and her host and hostess were coming out.
"Hello, old man!" exclaimed Davis. "Topping morning, isn't it? We're off for a canter through the orange groves. Come along."
"Yes, do," added the two ladies.
"Delighted," replied Peter.
Davis shouted to a native groom to saddle another pony.
Mostyn eyed the mount with a certain degree of misgiving. He would have been perfectly at home in the saddle of a motor-bicycle at anything up to fifty miles an hour. There the control was entirely in his own hands. A pony, he reflected, isn't a machine; it is an animal possessing brains and possibly an obstinate will. If the brute took it into his head to exceed ten miles an hour Peter wouldn't guarantee to keep his seat. He didn't profess to be a horseman, but in the circumstances he simply had to risk it and take his chance.