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as if nothing was noticeable. A scene from a play, thought Fielding, who now saw them from the distance across the garden grouped among the blue pillars of his beautiful hall.

      “Don’t trouble to come, mother,” Ronny called; “we’re just starting.” Then he hurried to Fielding, drew him aside and said with pseudo-heartiness, “I say, old man, do excuse me, but I think perhaps you oughtn’t to have left Miss Quested alone.”

      “I’m sorry, what’s up?” replied Fielding, also trying to be genial.

      “Well … I’m the sun-dried bureaucrat, no doubt; still, I don’t like to see an English girl left smoking with two Indians.”

      “She stopped, as she smokes, by her own wish, old man.”

      “Yes, that’s all right in England.”

      “I really can’t see the harm.”

      “If you can’t see, you can’t see…. Can’t you see that fellow’s a bounder?”

      Aziz flamboyant, was patronizing Mrs. Moore.

      “He isn’t a bounder,” protested Fielding. “His nerves are on edge, that’s all.”

      “What should have upset his precious nerves?”

      “I don’t know. He was all right when I left.”

      “Well, it’s nothing I’ve said,” said Ronny reassuringly. “I never even spoke to him.”

      “Oh well, come along now, and take your ladies away; the catastrophe over.”

      “Fielding … don’t think I’m taking it badly, or anything of that sort…. I suppose you won’t come on to the polo with us? We should all be delighted.”

      “I’m afraid I can’t, thanks all the same. I’m awfully sorry you feel I’ve been remiss. I didn’t mean to be.”

      So, the leave-taking began. Every one was cross or wretched. It was as if irritation exuded from the very soil. Could one have been so petty on a Scotch moor or an Italian alp? Fielding wondered afterwards. There seemed no reserve of tranquillity to draw upon in India. Either none, or else tranquillity swallowed up everything, as it appeared to do for Professor Godbole. Here was. Aziz all shoddy and odious, Mrs. Moore and Miss Quested both silly, and he himself and Heaslop both decorous on the surface, but detestable really, and detesting each other.

      “Good-bye, Mr. Fielding, and thank you so much…. What lovely College buildings!”

      “Good-bye, Mrs. Moore.”

      “Good-bye, Mr. Fielding. Such an interesting afternoon….”

      “Good-bye, Miss Quested.”

      “Good-bye, Dr. Aziz.”

      “Good-bye, Mrs. Moore.”

      “Good-bye, Dr. Aziz.”

      “Good-bye, Miss Quested.” He pumped her hand up and down to show that he felt at ease. “You’ll jolly jolly well not forget those caves, won’t you? I’ll fix the whole show up in a jiffy.”

      “Thank you….”

      Inspired by the devil to a final effort, he added, “What a shame you leave India so soon! Oh, do reconsider your decision, do stay.”

      “Good-bye, Professor Godbole,” she continued, suddenly agitated. “It’s a shame we never heard you sing.”

      “I may sing now,” he replied, and did.

      His thin voice rose, and gave out one sound after another. At times, there seemed rhythm, at times there was the illusion of a Western melody. But the ear, baffled repeatedly, soon lost any clue, and wandered in a maze of noises, none harsh or unpleasant, none intelligible. It was the song of an unknown bird. Only the servants understood it. They began to whisper to one another. The man who was gathering water chestnut came naked out of the tank, his lips parted with delight, disclosing his scarlet tongue. The sounds continued and ceased after a few moments as casually as they had begun—apparently half through a bar, and upon the subdominant.

      “Thanks so much: what was that?” asked Fielding.

      “I will explain in detail. It was a religious song. I placed myself in the position of a milkmaiden. I say to Shri Krishna11, ‘Come! come to me only.’ The god refuses to come. I grow humble and say: ‘Do not come to me only. Multiply yourself into a hundred Krishnas, and let one go to each of my hundred companions, but one, O Lord of the Universe, come to me.’ He refuses to come. This is repeated several times. The song is composed in a raga appropriate to the present hour, which is the evening.”

      “But He comes in some other song, I hope?” said Mrs. Moore gently.

      “Oh no, he refuses to come,” repeated Godbole, perhaps not understanding her question. “I say to Him, Come, come, come, come, come, come. He neglects to come.”

      Ronny’s steps had died away, and there was a moment of absolute silence. No ripple disturbed the water, no leaf stirred.

      Q

CHAPTER VIII

      A

      lthough Miss Quested had known Ronny well in England, she felt well advised to visit him before deciding to be his wife. India had developed sides of his character that she had never admired. His self-complacency, his censoriousness, his lack of subtlety, all grew vivid beneath a tropic sky; he seemed more indifferent than of old to what was passing in the minds of his fellows, more certain that he was right about them or that if he was wrong it didn’t matter. When proved wrong, he was particularly exasperating; he always managed to suggest that she needn’t have bothered to prove it. The point she made was never the relevant point, her arguments conclusive but barren, she was reminded that he had expert knowledge and she none, and that experience would not help her because she could not interpret it. A Public School, London University, a year at a crammer’s, a particular sequence of posts in a particular province, a fall from a horse and a touch of fever were presented to her as the only training by which Indians and all who reside in their country can be understood; the only training she could comprehend, that is to say, for of course above Ronny there stretched the higher realms of knowledge, inhabited by Callendars and Turtons, who had been not one year in the country but twenty and whose instincts were superhuman. For himself he made no extravagant claims; she wished he would. It was the qualified bray of the callow official, the “I am not perfect, but——” that got on her nerves.

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