And--it's catching. In some
subtle way this little concentrated world, within a world, seems to draw
one's receptiveness away from it all. Is that very sweeping, sir?"

A smile dawned in Mr Elton's rather mournful eyes. "In a sense--it's
painfully true. But the fact is--Anglo-Indian life can't be fairly
judged from the outside. It has to be lived before its insidiousness can
be suspected." He moistened his lips and caressed his chin with a large,
sensitive hand. "Happily--there are a good many exceptions."

"If I wasn't talking to one of them, sir--I wouldn't have ventured!"
said Roy; and the friendly smile deepened.

"All the same," Elton went on, "there are those who assert that it is
half the secret of our success; that India conquered the conquerors, who
lived _with_ her and so lost their virility. Yet in our earlier days,
when the personal touch was a reality, we _did_ achieve a better
relation all round. Of course the present state of affairs is the
inevitable fruit of our whole system. By the Anglicising process, we
have spread all over India a vast layer of minor officials some six
million persons deep! Consider, my dear young man, the significance of
those figures. We reduce the European staff. We increase the drudgery of
their office work--and we wonder why the Sahib and the peasant are no
longer personal friends----!"

Stirred by his subject, and warmed by Roy's intelligent interest, the
man's nervous tricks disappeared. He spoke eagerly, earnestly, as to an
equal in experience; a compliment Roy would have been quicker to
appreciate had not half his attention been centred on that exasperating
pair, who had retired to a cushioned alcove and looked like remaining
there for good.

What the devil had the girl invited him for? If she wished to
disillusion him, she was succeeding to admiration. If she fancied he was
one of her infernal ninepins, she was very much mistaken. And all the
while he found himself growing steadily more distracted, more
insistently conscious of her....

Voices and laughter heralded an influx of bridge players; Mrs Ranyard,
with Barnard, Miss Garten, and Dr Wemyss. A table of three women and one
man did not suit the little lady's taste.

"We're a very scratch lot. And we want fresh blood!" she announced
carnivorously, as the pair in the alcove rose and came forward.

The two men rose also, but went on with their talk. They knew it was not
their blood Mrs Ranyard was seeking. Roy ke