No More Learning

She got rid of him after a very few minutes. ‘And now, Mr Flory, if you DON’T mind, I
ought really — ’

He mumbled rather than said, ‘Won’t you come out with me again some time? Walking,
shooting — something? ’

‘I have so LITTLE time nowadays! ALL my evenings seem to be full. This evening I’m
going out riding. With Mr Verrall,’ she added.

It was possible that she added that in order to wound him. This was the first that he had
heard of her friendship with Verrall. He could not keep the dread, flat tone of envy out of
his voice as he said:



‘Do you go out riding much with Verrall? ’


‘Almost every evening. He’s such a wonderful horseman! And he has absolute STRINGS
of polo ponies! ’

‘Ah. And of course I have no polo ponies. ’

It was the first thing he had said that even approached seriousness, and it did no more
than offend her. However, she answered him with the same gay easy air as before, and
then showed him out. Mrs Lackersteen came back to the drawing-room, sniffed the air,
and immediately ordered the servants to take the reeking leopard-skin outside and burn it.

Flory lounged at his garden gate, pretending to feed the pigeons. He could not deny
himself the pain of seeing Elizabeth and Verrall start on their ride. How vulgarly, how
cruelly she had behaved to him! It is dreadful when people will not even have the
decency to quarrel. Presently Verrall rode up to the Lackersteens’ house on the white
pony, with a syce riding the chestnut, then there was a pause, then they emerged together,
Verrall on the chestnut pony, Elizabeth on the white, and trotted quickly up the hill. They
were chattering and laughing, her silk-shirted shoulder very close to his. Neither looked
towards Flory.

When they had disappeared into the jungle, Flory still loafed in the garden. The glare was
waning to yellow. The mali was at work grubbing up the English flowers, most of which
had died, slain by too much sunshine, and planting balsams, cockscombs, and more
zinnias. An hour passed, and a melancholy, earth-coloured Indian loitered up the drive,
dressed in a loin-cloth and a salmon-pink pagri on which a washing-basket was balanced.
He laid down his basket and salaamed to Flory.

‘Who are you? ’

‘Book-wallah, sahib. ’

The book-wallah was an itinerant peddler of books who wandered from station to station
throughout Upper Burma. His system of exchange was that for any book in his bundle
you gave him four annas, and any other book. Not quite ANY book, however, for the
book-wallah, though analphabetic, had learned to recognize and refuse a Bible.



‘No, sahib,’ he would say plaintively, ‘no. This book (he would turn it over
disapprovingly in his flat brown hands) this book with a black cover and gold letters —
this one I cannot take. I know not how it is, but all sahibs are offering me this book, and
none are taking it. What can it be that is in this black book? Some evil, undoubtedly. ’

‘Turn out your trash,’ Flory said.

He hunted among them for a good thriller — Edgar Wallace or Agatha Christie or
something; anything to still the deadly restlessness that was at his heart. As he bent over
the books he saw that both Indians were exclaiming and pointing towards the edge of the
jungle.

‘Dekko! ’ said the mali in his plum-in-the-mouth voice.

The two ponies were emerging from the jungle. But they were riderless. They came
trotting down the hill with the silly guilty air of a horse that has escaped from its master,
with the stirrups swinging and clashing under their bellies.

Flory remained unconsciously clasping one of the books against his chest. Verrall and
Elizabeth had dismounted. It was not an accident; by no effort of the mind could one
imagine Verrall falling off his horse. They had dismounted, and the ponies had escaped.

They had dismounted — for what? Ah, but he knew for what! It was not a question of
suspecting; he KNEW. He could see the whole thing happening, in one of those
hallucinations that are so perfect in detail, so vilely obscene, that they are past bearing.
He threw the book violently down and made for the house, leaving the book-wallah
disappointed. The servants heard him moving about indoors, and presently he called for a
bottle of whisky. He had a drink and it did him no good. Then he filled a tumbler two-
thirds full, added enough water to make it drinkable, and swallowed it. The filthy,
nauseous dose was no sooner down his throat than he repeated it. He had done the same
thing in camp once, years ago, when he was tortured by toothache and three hundred
miles from a dentist. At seven Ko S’la came in as usual to say that the bath-water was
hot. Flory was lying in one of the long chairs, with his coat off and his shirt torn open at
the throat.



‘Your bath, thakin,’ said Ko S’la.


Flory did not answer, and Ko S’la touched his ann, thinking him asleep. Flory was much
too drunk to move. The empty bottle had rolled across the floor, leaving a trail of whisky-
drops behind it. Ko STa called for Ba Pe and picked up the bottle, clicking his tongue.

‘Just look at this! He has drunk more than three-quarters of a bottle! ’

‘What, again? I thought he had given up drinking? ’

‘It is that accursed woman, I suppose. Now we must carry him carefully. You take his
heels, I’ll take his head. That’s right. Hoist him up! ’

They carried Flory into the other room and laid him gently on the bed.

‘Is he really going to marry this “Ingaleikma”? ’ said Ba Pe.

‘Heaven knows. She is the mistress of the young police officer at present, so I was told.
Their ways are not our ways. I think I know what he will be wanting tonight,’ he added as
he undid Flory’s braces — for Ko STa had the art, so necessary in a bachelor’s servant, of
undressing his master without waking him.

The servants were rather more pleased than not to see this return to bachelor habits. Flory
woke about midnight, naked in a pool of sweat. His head felt as though some large,
sharp-comered metal object were bumping about inside it. The mosquito net was up, and
a young woman was sitting beside the bed fanning him with a wicker fan. She had an
agreeable negroid face, bronze-gold in the candlelight. She explained that she was a
prostitute, and that Ko STa had engaged her on his own responsibility for a fee of ten
rupees.

Flory’s head was splitting. ‘For God’s sake get me something to drink,’ he said feebly to
the woman. She brought him some soda-water which Ko STa had cooled in readiness and
soaked a towel and put a wet compress round his forehead. She was a fat, good-tempered
creature. She told him that her name was Ma Sein Galay, and that besides plying her
other trade she sold paddy baskets in the bazaar near Li Yeik’s shop. Flory’s head felt



better presently, and he asked for a cigarette; whereupon Ma Sein Galay, having fetched
the cigarette, said naively, ‘Shall I take my clothes off now, thakin? ’


Why not? he thought dimly. He made room for her in the bed. But when he smelled the
familiar scent of garlic and coco-nut oil, something painful happened within him, and
with his head pillowed on Ma Sein Galay’s fat shoulder he actually wept, a thing he had
not done since he was fifteen years old.


CHAPTER 20

Next morning there was great excitement in Kyauktada, for the long-rumoured rebellion
had at last broken out. Flory heard only a vague report of it at the time. He had gone back
to camp as soon as he felt fit to march after the drunken night, and it was not until several
days later that he learned the true history of the rebellion, in a long, indignant letter from
Dr Veraswami.

The doctor’s epistolary style was queer. His syntax was shaky and he was as free with
capital letters as a seventeenth-century divine, while in the use of italics he rivalled
Queen Victoria. There were eight pages of his small but sprawling handwriting.

MY DEAR FRIEND [the letter ran], — You will much regret to hear that the WILES OF
THE CROCODILE have matured. The rebellion — the SO-CALLED rebellion — is all
over and finished. And it has been, alas! a more Bloody affair than 1 had hoped should
have been the case.

All has fallen out as 1 have prophesied to you it would be. On the day when you came
back to Kyauktada U Po Kyin’s SPIES have informed him that the poor unfortunate men
whom he have Deluded are assembling in the jungle near Thongwa. The same night he
sets out secretly with U Lugale, the Police Inspector, who is as great a Rogue as he, if
that could be, and twelve constables. They make a swift raid upon Thongwa and surprise
the rebels, of whom they are only Seven! ! in a ruined field hut in the jungle. Also Mr



Maxwell, who have heard rumours of the rebellion, came across from his camp bringing
his Rifle and was in time to join U Po Kyin and the police in their attack on the hut. The
next morning the clerk Ba Sein, who is U Po Kyin’s JACKALL and DIRTY WORKER,
have orders to raise the cry of rebellion as Sensationally as possible, which was done, and
Mr Macgregor, Mr Westfield and Lieutenant Verrall all rush out to Thongwa carrying
fifty sepoys armed with rifles besides Civil Police. But they arrive to find it is all over
and U Po Kyin was sitting under a big teak tree in the middle of the village and
PUTTING ON AIRS and lecturing the villages, whereat they are all bowing very
frightened and touching the ground with their foreheads and swearing they will be
forever loyal to the Government, and the rebellion is already at an end. The SO-CALLED
weiksa, who is no other than a circus conjurer and the MINION of U Po Kyin, have
vanished for parts unknown, but six rebels have been Caught. So there is an end.

Also I should inform you that there was most regrettably a Death. Mr Maxwell was I
think TOO ANXIOUS to use his Rifle and when one of the rebels try to run away he
fired and shoot him in the abdomen, at which he died. I thi nk the villagers have some
BAD FEELING towards Mr Maxwell because of it. But from the point of view legal all
is well for Mr Maxwell, because the men were undoubtedly conspiring against the
Government.

Ah, but, my Friend, I trust that you understand how disastrous may all this be for me!
You will realise, I think, what is its bearing upon the Contest between U Po Kyin and
myself, and the supreme LEG-UP it must give to him. It is the TRIUMPH OF THE
CROCODILE. U Po Kyin is now the Hero of the district. He is the PET of the
Europeans. I am told that even Mr Ellis has praised his conduct. If you could witness the
abominable Conceitedness and the LIES he is now telling as to how there were not seven
rebels but Two Hundred! ! and how he crushed upon them revolver in hand — he who only
directing operations from a SAFE DISTANCE while the police and Mr Maxwell creep
up upon the hut — you would find is veritably Nauseous I assure you. He has had the
effrontery to send in an official report of the matter which started, ‘By my loyal
promptitude and reckless daring’, and I hear that positively he had had this
Conglomeration of lies written out in readiness days BEFORE THE OCCURRENCE. It
is Disgusting. And to think that now when he is at the Height of his triumph he will again
begin to calumniate me with all the venom at his disposal etc. etc.



The rebels’ entire stock of weapons had been captured. The armoury with which, when
their followers were assembled, they had proposed to march upon Kyauktada, consisted
of the following:

Item, one shotgun with a damaged left barrel, stolen from a Forest Officer three years
earlier.

Item, six home-made guns with barrels of zinc piping stolen from the railway. These
could be fired, after a fashion, by thrusting a nail through the touch-hole and striking it
with a stone.

Item, thirty-nine twelve-bore cartridges.

Item, eleven dummy guns carved out of teakwood.

Item, some large Chinese crackers which were to have been fired in terrorem.

Later, two of the rebels were sentenced to fifteen years’ transportation, three to three
years’ imprisonment and twenty-five lashes, and one to two years’ imprisonment.

The whole miserable rebellion was so obviously at an end that the Europeans were not
considered to be in any danger, and Maxwell had gone back to his camp unguarded.
Flory intended to stay in camp until the rains broke, or at least until the general meeting
at the Club. He had promised to be in for that, to propose the doctor’s election; though
now, with his own trouble to think of, the whole business of the intrigue between U Po
Kyin and the doctor sickened him.

More weeks crawled by. The heat was dreadful now. The overdue rain seemed to have
bred a fever in the air. Flory was out of health, and worked incessantly, worrying over
petty jobs that should have been left to the overseer, and making the coolies and even the
servants hate him. He drank gin at all hours, but not even drinking could distract him
now. The vision of Elizabeth in Verrall’s arms haunted him like a neuralgia or an
earache. At any moment it would come upon him, vivid and disgusting, scattering his
thoughts, wrenching him back from the brink of sleep, turning his food to dust in his
mouth. At times he flew into savage rages, and once even struck Ko S’la. What was



worse than all was the DETAIL — the always filthy detail — in which the imagined scene
appeared. The very perfection of the detail seemed to prove that it was true.

Is there anything in the world more graceless, more dishonouring, than to desire a woman
whom you will never have? Throughout all these weeks Flory’s mind held hardly a
thought which was not murderous or obscene. It is the common effect of jealousy. Once
he had loved Elizabeth spiritually, sentimentally indeed, desiring her sympathy more than
her caresses; now, when he had lost her, he was tormented by the basest physical longing.
He did not even idealize her any longer. He saw her now almost as she was — silly,
snobbish, heartless — and it made no difference to his longing for her. Does it ever make
any difference? At nights when he lay awake, his bed dragged outside the tent for
coolness, looking at the velvet dark from which the barking of a gyi sometimes sounded,
he hated himself for the images that inhabited his mind. It was so base, this envying of
the better man who had beaten him. For it was only envy — even jealousy was too good a
name for it. What right had he to be jealous? He had offered himself to a girl who was too
young and pretty for him, and she had turned him down — rightly. He had got the snub he
deserved. Nor was there any appeal from that decision; nothing would ever make him
young again, or take away his birthmark and his decade of lonely debaucheries. He could
only stand and look on while the better man took her, and envy him, like — but the simile
was not even mentionable. Envy is a horrible thing. It is unlike all other kinds of
suffering in that there is no disguising it, no elevating it into tragedy. It is more than
merely painful, it is disgusting.

But meanwhile, was it true, what he suspected? Had Verrall really become Elizabeth’s
lover? There is no knowing, but on the whole the chances were against it, for, had it been
so, there would have been no concealing it in such a place as Kyauktada. Mrs
Lackersteen would probably have guessed it, even if the others had not. One thing was
certain, however, and that was that Verrall had as yet made no proposal of marriage. A
week went by, two weeks, three weeks; three weeks is a very long time in a small Indian
station. Verrall and Elizabeth rode together every evening, danced together every night;
yet Verrall had never so much as entered the Lackersteens’ house. There was endless
scandal about Elizabeth, of course. All the Orientals of the town had taken it for granted
that she was VerralFs mistress. U Po Kyin’s version (he had a way of being essentially
right even when he was wrong in detail) was that Elizabeth had been Flory’s concubine



and had deserted him for Verrall because Verrall paid her more. Ellis, too, was inventing
tales about Elizabeth that made Mr Macgregor squirm. Mrs Lackersteen, as a relative, did
not hear these scandals, but she was growing nervous. Every evening when Elizabeth
came home from her ride she would meet her hopefully, expecting the ‘Oh, aunt! What
DO you think! ’ — and then the glorious news. But the news never came, and however
carefully she studied Elizabeth’s face, she could divine nothing.

When three weeks had passed Mrs Lackersteen became fretful and finally half angry. The
thought of her husband, alone — or rather, not alone — in his camp, was troubling her.
After all, she had sent him back to camp in order to give Elizabeth her chance with
Verrall (not that Mrs Lackersteen would have put it so vulgarly as that). One evening she
began lecturing and threatening Elizabeth in her oblique way. The conversation consisted
of a sighing monologue with very long pauses — for Elizabeth made no answer whatever.

Mrs Lackersteen began with some general remarks, apropos of a photograph in the
Tatler, about these fast MODERN girls who went about in beach pyjamas and all that and
made themselves so dreadfully CHEAP with men.
A girl, Mrs Lackersteen said, should
NEVER make herself too cheap with a man; she should make herself — but the opposite
of ‘cheap’ seemed to be ‘expensive’, and that did not sound at all right, so Mrs
Lackersteen changed her tack. She went on to tell Elizabeth about a letter she had had
from home with further news of that poor, POOR dear girl who was out in Burma for a
while and had so foolishly neglected to get married. Her sufferings had been quite
heartrending, and it just showed how glad a girl ought to be to marry anyone, literally
ANYONE. It appeared that the poor, poor dear girl had lost her job and been practically
STARVING for a long time, and now she had actually had to take a job as a common
kitchen maid under a horrid, vulgar cook who bullied her most shockingly. And it seemed
that the black beetles in the kitchen were simply beyond belief! Didn’t Elizabeth think it
too absolutely dreadful? BLACK BEETLES!

Mrs Lackersteen remained silent for some time, to allow the black beetles to sink in,
before adding:

‘SUCH a pity that Mr Verrall will be leaving us when the rains break. Kyauktada will
seem quite EMPTY without him! ’



‘When do the rains break, usually? ’ said Elizabeth as indifferently as she could manage.


‘About the beginning of June, up here. Only a week or two now. . . . My dear, it seems
absurd to mention it again, but I cannot get out of my head the thought of that poor, poor
dear girl in the kitchen among the BLACK BEETLES! ’

Black beetles recurred more than once in Mrs Lackersteen’s conversation during the rest
of the evening. It was not until the following day that she remarked in the tone of
someone dropping an unimportant piece of gossip:

‘By the way, I believe Flory is coming back to Kyauktada at the beginning of June. He
said he was going to be in for the general meeting at the Club. Perhaps we might invite
him to dinner some time. ’

It was the first time that either of them had mentioned Flory since the day when he had
brought Elizabeth the leopard-skin. After being virtually forgotten for several weeks, he
had returned to each woman’s mind, a depressing pis aller.

Three days later Mrs Lackersteen sent word to her husband to come back to Kyauktada.
He had been in camp long enough to earn a short spell in headquarters. He came back,
more florid than ever — sunburn, he explained — and having acquired such a trembling of
the hands that he could barely light a cigarette. Nevertheless, that evening he celebrated
his return by manoeuvring Mrs Lackersteen out of the house, coming into Elizabeth’s
bedroom and making a spirited attempt to rape her.

During all this time, unknown to anyone of importance, further sedition was afoot. The
‘weiksa’ (now far away, peddling the philosopher’s stone to innocent villagers in
Martaban) had perhaps done his job a little better than he intended. At any rate, there was
a possibility of fresh trouble — some isolated, futile outrage, probably. Even U Po Kyin
knew nothing of this yet. But as usual the gods were fighting on his side, for any further
rebellion would make the first seem more serious than it had been, and so add to his
glory.



CHAPTER 21


O western wind, when wilt thou blow, that the small rain down can rain? It was the first
of June, the day of the general meeting, and there had not been a drop of rain yet. As
Flory came up the Club path the sun of afternoon, slanting beneath his hat-brim, was still
savage enough to scorch his neck uncomfortably. The mali staggered along the path, his
breast-muscles slippery with sweat, carrying two kerosene-tins of water on a yoke. He
dumped them down, slopping a little water over his lank brown feet, and salaamed to
Flory.

‘Well, mali, is the rain coming? ’

The man gestured vaguely towards the west. ‘The hills have captured it, sahib. ’

Kyauktada was ringed almost round by hills, and these caught the earlier showers, so that
sometimes no rain fell till almost the end of June. The earth of the flower-beds, hoed into
large untidy lumps, looked grey and hard as concrete. Flory went into the lounge and
found Westfield loafing by the veranda, looking out over the river, for the chicks had
been rolled up. At the foot of the veranda a chokra lay on his back in the sun, pulling the
punkah rope with his heel and shading his face with a broad strip of banana leaf.

‘Hullo, Flory! You’ve got thin as a rake. ’

‘So’ve you. ’

‘H’m, yes. Bloody weather. No appetite except for booze. Christ, won’t I be glad when I
hear the frogs start croaking. Let’s have a spot before the others come. Butler! ’

‘Do you know who’s coming to the meeting? ’ Flory said, when the butler had brought
whisky and tepid soda.

‘Whole crowd, I believe. Lackersteen got back from camp three days ago. By God, that
man’s been having the time of his life away from his missus! My inspector was telling
me about the goings-on at his camp. Tarts by the score. Must have imported ‘em
specially from Kyauktada. He’ll catch it all right when the old woman sees his Club bill.
Eleven bottles of whisky sent out to his camp in a fortnight. ’



‘Is young Verrall coming? ’

‘No, he’s only a temporary member. Not that he’d trouble to come anyway, young tick.
Maxwell won’t be here either. Can’t leave camp just yet, he says. He sent word Ellis was
to speak for him if there’s any voting to be done. Don’t suppose there’ll be anything to
vote about, though eh? ’ he added, looking at Flory obliquely, for both of them
remembered their previous quarrel on this subject.

‘I suppose it lies with Macgregor. ’

‘What I mean is, Macgregor’ll have dropped that bloody rot about electing a native
member, eh? Not the moment for it just now. After the rebellion and all that. ’

‘What about the rebellion, by the way? ’ said Flory. He did not want to start wrangling
about the doctor’s election yet. There was going to be trouble and to spare in a few
minutes. ‘Any more news — are they going to have another try, do you think? ’

‘No. All over, I’m afraid. They caved in like the funks they are. The whole district’s as
quiet as a bloody girls’ school. Most disappointing. ’

Flory’s heart missed a beat. He had heard Elizabeth’s voice in the next room. Mr
Macgregor came in at this moment, Ellis and Mr Lackersteen following. This made up
the full quota, for the women members of the Club had no votes. Mr Macgregor was
already dressed in a silk suit, and was carrying the Club account books under his arm. He
managed to bring a sub-official air even into such petty business as a Club meeting.

‘As we seem to be all here,’ he said after the usual greetings, ‘shall we — ah — proceed
with our labours? ’

‘Lead on, Macduff,’ said Westfield, sitting down.


‘Call the butler, someone, for Christ’s sake,’ said Mr Lackersteen. ‘I daren’t let my
missus hear me calling him. ’



‘Before we apply ourselves to the agenda,’ said Mr Macgregor when he had refused a
drink and the others had taken one, ‘I expect you will want me to run through the
accounts for the half-year? ’

They did not want it particularly, but Mr Macgregor, who enjoyed this kind of thing, ran
through the accounts with great thoroughness. Flory’s thoughts were wandering. There
was going to be such a row in a moment — oh, such a devil of a row! They would be
furious when they found that he was proposing the doctor after all. And Elizabeth was in
the next room. God send she didn’t hear the noise of the row when it came. It would
make her despise him all the more to see the others baiting him. Would he see her this
evening? Would she speak to him? He gazed across the quarter-mile of gleaming river.
By the far bank a knot of men, one of them wearing a green gaungbaung, were waiting
beside a sampan. In the channel, by the nearer bank, a huge, clumsy Indian barge
struggled with desperate slowness against the racing current. At each stroke the ten
rowers, Dravidian starvelings, ran forward and plunged their long primitive oars, with
heart-shaped blades, into the water. They braced their meagre bodies, then tugged,
writhed, strained backwards like agonized creatures of black rubber, and the ponderous
hull crept onwards a yard or two. Then the rowers sprang forward, panting, to plunge
their oars again before the current should check her.

‘And now,’ said Mr Macgregor more gravely, ‘we come to the main point of the agenda.
That, of course, is this — ah — distasteful question, which I am afraid must be faced, of
electing a native member to this Club. When we discussed the matter before — ’

‘What the hell! ’

It was Ellis who had interrupted. He was so excited that he had sprung to his feet.

‘What the hell! Surely we aren’t starting THAT over again? Talk about electing a
damned nigger so this Club, after everything that’s happened! Good God, I thought even
Flory had dropped it by this time! ’


‘Our friend Ellis appears surprised. The matter has been discussed before, I believe. ’



‘I should think it damned well was discussed before! And we all said what we thought of
it. By God — ’

‘If our friend Ellis will sit down for a few moments — ’ said Mr Macgregor tolerantly.

Ellis threw himself into his chair again, exclaiming, ‘Bloody rubbish! ’ Beyond the river
Flory could see the group of Burmans embarking. They were lifting a long, awkward-
shaped bundle into the sampan. Mr Macregor had produced a letter from his file of
papers.

‘Perhaps I had better explain how this question arose in the first place. The
Commissioner tells me that a circular has been sent round by the Government, suggesting
that in those Clubs where there are no native members, one at least shall be co-opted; that
is, admitted automatically. The circular says — ah yes! here it is: “It is mistaken policy to
offer social affronts to native officials of high standing. ” I may say that I disagree most
emphatically. No doubt we all do. We who have to do the actual work of government see
things very differently from these — ah — Paget M. P. s who interfere with us from above.
The Commissioner quite agrees with me. However — ’

‘But it’s all bloody rot! ’ broke in Ellis. ‘What’s it got to do with the Commissioner or
anyone else? Surely we can do as we like in our own bloody Club? They’ve no right to
dictate to us when we’re off duty. ’

‘Quite,’ said Westfield.

‘You anticipate me. I told the Commissioner that I should have to put the matter before
the other members. And the course he suggests is this. If the idea finds any support in the
Club, he thinks it would be better if we co-opted our native member. On the other hand, if
the entire Club is against it, it can be dropped. That is, if opinion is quite unanimous. ’

‘Well, it damned well is unanimous,’ said Ellis.

‘D’you mean,’ said Westfield, ‘that it depends on ourselves whether we have ‘em in here
or no? ’


‘I fancy we can take it as meaning that. ’



‘Well, then, let’s say we’re against it to a man. ’


‘And say it bloody firmly, by God. We want to put our foot down on this idea once and
for all. ’

‘Hear, hear! ’ said Mr Lackersteen gruffly. ‘Keep the black swabs out of it. Esprit de
corps and all that. ’

Mr Lackersteen could always be relied upon for sound sentiments in a case like this. In
his heart he did not care and never had cared a damn for the British Raj, and he was as
happy drinking with an Oriental as with a white man; but he was always ready with a
loud ‘Hear, hear! ’ when anyone suggested the bamboo for disrespectful servants or
boiling oil for Nationalists. He prided himself that though he might booze a bit and all
that, dammit, he WAS loyal. It was his form of respectability. Mr Macgregor was secretly
rather relieved by the general agreement. If any Oriental member were co-opted, that
member would have to be Dr Veraswami, and he had had the deepest distrust of the
doctor ever since Nga Shwe O’s suspicious escape from the jail.

‘Then I take it that you are all agreed? ’ he said. ‘If so, I will inform the Commissioner.
Otherwise, we must begin discussing the candidate for election. ’

Flory stood up. He had got to say his say. His heart seemed to have risen into his throat
and to be choking him. From what Mr Macgregor had said, it was clear that it was in his
power to secure the doctor’s election by speaking the word. But oh, what a bore, what a
nuisance it was! What an infernal uproar there would be! How he wished he had never
given the doctor that promise! No matter, he had given it, and he could not break it. So
short a time ago he would have broken it, en bon pukka sahib, how easily! But not now.
He had got to see this thing through. He turned himself sidelong so that his birthmark was
away from the others. Already he could feel his voice going flat and guilty.

‘Our friend Flory has something to suggest? ’

‘Yes. I propose Dr Veraswami as a member of this Club. ’

There was such a yell of dismay from three of the others that Mr Macgregor had to rap
sharply on the table and remind them that the ladies were in the next room. Ellis took not



the smallest notice. He had sprung to his feet again, and the skin round his nose had gone
quite grey. He and Flory remained facing one another, as though on the point of blows.

‘Now, you damned swab, will you take that back? ’

‘No, I will not. ’

‘You oily swine! You nigger’s Nancy Boy! You crawling, sneaking, — bloody bastard! ’
‘Order! ’ exclaimed Mr Macgregor.

‘But look at him, look at him! ’ cried Ellis almost tearfully.