y, by his daring and dexterity in the test of swooping down and
snatching a handkerchief from the ground at full gallop. The ovation he
received went to his head like champagne. But praise from Lance went to
his heart; for Lance, like himself, had been 'dead keen' on this
particular event. He had carried off a tent-pegging cup, however; and
appropriately won the V.C. race. So Roy considered he had a right to his
triumph; especially as the handkerchief in question had been proffered
by Miss Arden. It was reposing in his breast pocket now; and he had a
good mind not to part with it. He was feeling in the mood to dare,
simply for the excitement of the thing. He and she had won the Gretna
Green race--hands down. He further intended--for her honour and his own
glory--to come off victor in the Cockade Tournament, in spite of the
fact that fencing on horseback was one of Lance's specialities. He had
taught Roy in Mesopotamia, during those barren, plague-ridden stretches
of time when the war seemed hung up indefinitely and it took every ounce
of surplus optimism to keep going at all.

Roy's hope was that some other man might knock Lance out; or--as teams
would be decided by lot--that luck might cast them together. For the
ache of compunction was rather pronounced this afternoon; perhaps
because the good fellow's aloofness from the grand _shamianah_[24] was
also rather pronounced, considering....

He seemed always to be either out in the open, directing events, or very
much engaged in the refreshment tent--an earthly Paradise, on this
blazing day of early April, to scores of dusty, thirsty, indefatigable
men.

Between events, as now, the place was thronged. Every moment, fresh
arrivals shouting for 'drinks.' Every moment the swish of a syphon, the
popping of corks; ginger-beer and lemonade for Indian officers, seated
just outside, and permitted by caste rules to refresh themselves
'English-fashion,' provided they drank from the pure source of the
bottle. Not a Sikh or Rajput of them all would have sullied his
caste-purity by drinking from the tumbler used by some admired Sahib,
for whom on service he would cheerfully lay down his life. Within the
tent were a few--very few--more advanced beings, who had discarded all
irksome restrictions and would sooner be shot than address a white man
as 'Sahib.' Such is India in transition; a welter of incongruities, of
shifting perilous uncertainties, of subterranean ferment beneath a
surf