No More Learning

She had seen him lying bloody and in pain, and
she had walked past him as though he had been a dead dog. How could it have happened?
HAD it happened? It was incredible. Could she be angry with him? Could he have
offended her in any way? All the servants were waiting at the compound fence. They had
come out to watch the tent-pegging, and every one of them had seen his bitter
humiliation. Ko S’la ran part of the way down the hill to meet him, with concerned face.

‘The god has hurt himself? Shall I carry the god back to the house? ’

‘No,’ said the god. ‘Go and get me some whisky and a clean shirt. ’

When they got back to the house Ko S’la made Flory sit down on the bed and peeled off
his torn shirt which the blood had stuck to his body. Ko S’la clicked his tongue.

‘Ah ma lay? These cuts are full of dirt. You ought not to play these children’s games on
strange ponies, thakin. Not at your age. It is too dangerous. ’


‘The saddle slipped,’ Flory said.



‘Such games,’ pursued Ko S’la, ‘are all very well for the young police officer. But you
are no longer young, thakin. A fall hurts at your age. You should take more care of
yourself. ’

‘Do you take me for an old man? ’ said Flory angrily. His shoulder was smarting
abominably.

‘You are thirty-five, thakin,’ said Ko S’la politely but firmly.

It was all very humiliating. Ma Pu and Ma Yi, temporarily at peace, had brought a pot of
some dreadful mess which they declared was good for cuts. Flory told Ko S’la privately
to throw it out of the window and substitute boracic ointment. Then, while he sat in a
tepid bath and Ko S’la sponged the dirt out of his grazes, he puzzled helplessly, and, as
his head grew clearer, with a deeper and deeper dismay, over what had happened. He had
offended her bitterly, that was clear. But, when he had not even seen her since last night,
how COULD he have offended her? And there was no even plausible answer.

He explained to Ko S’la several times over that his fall was due to the saddle slipping.
But Ko S’la, though sympathetic, clearly did not believe him. To the end of his days,
Flory perceived, the fall would be attributed to his own bad horsemanship. On the other
hand, a fortnight ago, he had won undeserved renown by putting to flight the harmless
buffalo. Fate is even-handed, after a fashion.


CHAPTER 17

Flory did not see Elizabeth again until he went down to the Club after dinner. He had not,
as he might have done, sought her out and demanded an explanation. His face unnerved
him when he looked at it in the glass. With the birthmark on one side and the graze on the
other it was so woebegone, so hideous, that he dared not show himself by daylight. As he
entered the Club lounge he put his hand over his birthmark — pretext, a mosquito bite on



the forehead. It would have been more than his nerve was equal to, not to cover his
birthmark at such a moment. However, Elizabeth was not there.

Instead, he tumbled into an unexpected quarrel. Ellis and Westfield had just got back
from the jungle, and they were sitting drinking, in a sour mood. News had come from
Rangoon that the editor of the Bunnese Patriot had been given only four months’
imprisonment for his libel against Mr Macregor, and Ellis was working himself up into a
rage over this light sentence. As soon as Flory came in Ellis began baiting him with
remarks about ‘that little nigger Very-slimy’. At the moment the very thought of
quarrelling made Flory yawn, but he answered incautiously, and there was an argument.
It grew heated, and after Ellis had called Flory a nigger’s Nancy Boy and Flory had
replied in kind, Westfield too lost his temper. He was a good-natured man, but Flory ’s
Bolshie ideas sometimes annoyed him. He could never understand why, when there was
so clearly a right and a wrong opinion about everything, Flory always seemed to delight
in choosing the wrong one. He told Flory ‘not to start talking like a damned Hyde Park
agitator’, and then read him a snappish little sermon, taking as his text the five chief
beatitudes of the pukka sahib, namely:

Keeping up our prestige, The firm hand (without the velvet glove), We white men must
hang together, Give them an inch and they’ll take an ell, and Esprit de Corps.

All the while his anxiety to see Elizabeth was so gnawing at Flory’s heart that he could
hardly hear what was said to him. Besides, he had heard it all so often, so very often — a
hundred times, a thousand times it might be, since his first week in Rangoon, when his
hurra sahib (an old Scotch gin-soaker and great breeder of racing ponies, afterwards
warned off the turf for some dirty business of running the same horse under two different
names) saw him take off his topi to pass a native funeral and said to him reprovingly:
‘Remember laddie, always remember, we are sahiblog and they are dirrt! ’ It sickened
him, now, to have to listen to such trash. So he cut Westfield short by saying
blasphemously:

‘Oh, shut up! I’m sick of the subject. Veraswami’s a damned good fellow — a damned
sight better than some white men I can think of. Anyway, I’m going to propose his name



for the Club when the general meeting comes. Perhaps he’ll liven this bloody place up a
bit. ’

Whereat the row would have become serious if it had not ended as most rows ended at
the Club — with the appearance of the butler, who had heard the raised voices.

‘Did master call, sir? ’

‘No. Go to hell,’ said Ellis morosely.

The butler retired, but that was the end of the dispute for the time being. At this moment
there were footsteps and voices outside; the Lackersteens were arriving at the Club.

When they entered the lounge, Flory could not even nerve himself to look directly at
Elizabeth; but he noticed that all three of them were much more smartly dressed than
usual. Mr Lackersteen was even wearing a dinner-jacket — white, because of the season —
and was completely sober. The boiled shirt and pique waistcoat seemed to hold him
upright and stiffen his moral fibre like a breastplate. Mrs Lackersteen looked handsome
and serpentine in a red dress. In some indefinable way all three gave the impression that
they were waiting to receive some distinguished guest.

When drinks had been called for, and Mrs Lackersteen had usurped the place under the
punkah, Flory took a chair on the outside of the group. He dared not accost Elizabeth yet.
Mrs Lackersteen had begun talking in an extraordinary, silly manner about the dear
Prince of Wales, and putting on an accent like a temporarily promoted chorus-girl playing
the part of a duchess in a musical comedy. The others wondered privately what the devil
was the matter with her. Flory had stationed himself almost behind Elizabeth. She was
wearing a yellow frock, cut very short as the fashion then was, with champagne-coloured
stockings and slippers to match, and she carried a big ostrich-feather fan. She looked so
modish, so adult, that he feared her more than he had ever done. It was unbelievable that
he had ever kissed her. She was talking easily to all the others at once, and now and again
he dared to put a word into the general conversation; but she never answered him
directly, and whether or not she meant to ignore him, he could not tell.


‘Well,’ said Mrs Lackersteen presently, ‘and who’s for a rubbah? ’



She said quite distinctly a ‘rubbah’. Her accent was growing more aristocratic with every
word she uttered. It was unaccountable. It appeared that Ellis, Westfield and Mr
Lackersteen were for a ‘rubbah’. Flory refused as soon as he saw that Elizabeth was not
playing. Now or never was his chance to get her alone. When they all moved for the card-
room, he saw with a mixture of fear and relief that Elizabeth came last. He stopped in the
doorway, barring her path. He had turned dreadly pale. She shrank from him a little.

‘Excuse me,’ they both said simultaneously.

‘One moment,’ he said, and do what he would his voice trembled. ‘May I speak to you?
You don’t mind — there’s something I must say. ’

‘Will you please let me pass, Mr Flory? ’

‘Please! Please! We’re alone now. You won’t refuse just to let me speak? ’

‘What is it, then? ’

‘It’s only this. Whatever I’ve done to offend you — please tell me what it is. Tell me and
let me put it right. I’d sooner cut my hand off than offend you. Just tell me, don’t let me
go on not even knowing what it is. ’

‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about. “Tell you how you’ve offended me? ”
Why should you have OFFENDED me? ’

‘But I must have! After the way you behaved! ’

“‘After the way I behaved? ” I don’t know what you mean. I don’t know why you’re
talking in this extraordinary way at all. ’

‘But you won’t even speak to me! This morning you cut me absolutely dead. ’

‘Surely I can do as I like without being questioned? ’

‘But please, please! Don’t you see, you must see, what it’s like for me to be snubbed all
of a sudden. After all, only last night you — ’



She turned pink. ‘I think it’s absolutely — absolutely caddish of you to mention such
things! ’

‘I know, I know. I know all that. But what else can I do? You walked past me this
morning as though I’d been a stone. I know that I’ve offended you in some way. Can you
blame me if I want to know what it is that I’ve done? ’

He was, as usual, making it worse with every word he said. He perceived that whatever
he had done, to be made to speak of it seemed to her worse than the thing itself. She was
not going to explain. She was going to leave him in the dark — snub him and then pretend
that nothing had happened; the natural feminine move. Nevertheless he urged her again:

‘Please tell me. I can’t let everything end between us like this. ’

“‘End between us”? There was nothing to end,’ she said coldly.

The vulgarity of this remark wounded him, and he said quickly:

‘That wasn’t like you, Elizabeth! It’s not generous to cut a man dead after you’ve been
kind to him, and then refuse even to tell him the reason. You might be straightforward
with me. Please tell me what it is that I’ve done. ’

She gave him an oblique, bitter look, bitter not because of what he had done, but because
he had made her speak of it. But perhaps she was anxious to end the scene, and she said:

‘Well then, if you absolutely force me to speak of it — ’


‘Yes? ’


‘I’m told that at the very same time as you were pretending to — well, when you were . . .
with me — oh, it’s too beastly! I can’t speak of it. ’

‘Go on. ’


‘I’m told that you’re keeping a Burmese woman. And now, will you please let me pass? ’



With that she sailed — there was no other possible word for it — she sailed past him with a
swish of her short skirts, and vanished into the card-room. And he remained looking after
her, too appalled to speak, and looking unutterably ridiculous.

It was dreadful. He could not face her after that. He turned to hurry out of the Club, and
then dared not even pass the door of the card-room, lest she should see him. He went into
the lounge, wondering how to escape, and finally climbed over the veranda rail and
dropped on to the small square of lawn that ran down to the Irrawaddy. The sweat was
running from his forehead. He could have shouted with anger and distress. The accursed
luck of it! To be caught out over a thing like that. ‘Keeping a Bunnese woman’ — and it
was not even true! But much use it would ever be to deny it. Ah, what damned, evil
chance could have brought it to her ears?

But as a matter of fact, it was no chance. It had a perfectly sound cause, which was also
the cause of Mrs Lackersteen’s curious behaviour at the Club this evening. On the
previous night, just before the earthquake, Mrs Lackersteen had been reading the Civil
List. The Civil List (which tells you the exact income of every official in Burma) was a
source of inexhaustible interest to her. She was in the middle of adding up the pay and
allowances of a Conservator of Forests whom she had once met in Mandalay, when it
occurred to her to look up the name of Lieutenant Verrall, who, she had heard from Mr
Macregor, was arriving at Kyauktada tomorrow with a hundred Military Policemen.
When she found the name, she saw in front of it two words that startled her almost out of
her wits.

The words were ‘The Honourable’!

The HONOURABLE! Lieutenants the Honourable are rare anywhere, rare as diamonds
in the Indian Army, rare as dodos in Burma. And when you are the aunt of the only
marriageable young woman within fifty miles, and you hear that a lieutenant the
Honourable is arriving no later than tomorrow — well! With dismay Mrs Lackersteen
remembered that Elizabeth was out in the garden with Flory — that drunken wretch Flory,
whose pay was barely seven hundred rupees a month, and who, it was only too probable,
was already proposing to her! She hastened immediately to call Elizabeth inside, but at
this moment the earthquake intervened. However, on the way home there was an



opportunity to speak. Mrs Lackersteen laid her hand affectionately on Elizabeth’s arm
and said in the tenderest voice she had ever succeeded in producing:

‘Of course you know, Elizabeth dear, that Flory is keeping a Burmese woman? ’

For a moment this deadly charge actually failed to explode. Elizabeth was so new to the
ways of the country that the remark made no impression on her. It sounded hardly more
significant than ‘keeping a parrot’.

‘Keeping a Burmese woman? What for? ’

‘What FOR? My dear! what DOES a man keep a woman for? ’

And, of course, that was that.

For a long time Flory remained standing by the river bank. The moon was up, mirrored in
the water like a broad shield of electron. The coolness of the outer air had changed
Flory ’s mood. He had not even the heart to be angry any longer. For he had perceived,
with the deadly self-knowledge and self-loathing that come to one at such a time, that
what had happened served him perfectly right. For a moment it seemed to him that an
endless procession of Burmese women, a regiment of ghosts, were marching past him in
the moonlight. Heavens, what numbers of them! A thousand — no, but a full hundred at
the least. ‘Eyes right! ’ he thought despondently.
Their heads turned towards him, but they
had no faces, only featureless discs. He remembered a blue longyi here, a pair of ruby
ear-rings there, but hardly a face or a name. The gods are just and of our pleasant vices
(pleasant, indeed! ) make instruments to plague us. He had dirtied himself beyond
redemption, and this was his just punishment.

He made his way slowly through the croton bushes and round the clubhouse. He was too
saddened to feel the full pain of the disaster yet. It would begin hurting, as all deep
wounds do, long afterwards. As he passed through the gate something stirred the leaves
behind him. He started. There was a whisper of harsh Burmese syllables.


‘Pike-san pay-like! Pike-san pay-like! ’



He turned sharply. The ‘pike-san pay-like’ (‘Give me the money’) was repeated. He saw
a woman standing under the shadow of the gold mohur tree. It was Ma Hla May. She
stepped out into the moonlight warily, with a hostile air, keeping her distance as though
afraid that he would strike her. Her face was coated with powder, sickly white in the
moon, and it looked as ugly as a skull, and defiant.

She had given him a shock. ‘What the devil are you doing here? ’ he said angrily in
English.

‘Pike-san pay-like! ’

‘What money? What do you mean? Why are you following me about like this? ’

‘Pike-san pay-like! ’ she repeated almost in a scream. ‘The money you promised me,
thakin. You said you would give me more money. I want it now, this instant! ’

‘How can I give it you now? You shall have it next month. I have given you a hundred
and fifty rupees already. ’

To his alarm she began shrieking ‘Pike-san pay-like! ’ and a number of similar phrases
almost at the top of her voice. She seemed on the verge of hysterics. The volume of noise
that she produced was startling.

‘Be quiet! They’ll hear you in the Club! ’ he exclaimed, and was instantly sorry for
putting the idea into her head.

‘Aha! NOW I know what will frighten you! Give me the money this instant, or I will
scream for help and bring them all out here. Quick, now, or I begin screaming! ’

‘You bitch! ’ he said, and took a step towards her. She sprang nimbly out of reach,
whipped off her slipper, and stood defying him.


‘Be quick! Fifty rupees now and the rest tomorrow. Out with it! Or I give a scream they
can hear as far as the bazaar! ’



Flory swore. This was not the time for such a scene. Finally he took out his pocket-book,
found twenty-five rupees in it, and threw them on to the ground. Ma Hla May pounced on
the notes and counted them.

‘I said fifty rupees, thakin! ’

‘How can I give it you if I haven’t got it? Do you think I carry hundreds of rupees about
with me? ’

‘I said fifty rupees! ’

‘Oh, get out of my way! ’ he said in English, and pushed past her.

But the wretched woman would not leave him alone. She began to follow him up the road
like a disobedient dog, screaming out ‘Pike-san pay-like! Pike-san pay-like! ’ as though
mere noise could bring the money into existence. He hurried, partly to draw her away
from the Club, partly in hopes of shaking her off, but she seemed ready to follow him as
far as the house if necessary. After a while he could not stand it any longer, and he turned
to drive her back.

‘Go away this instant! If you follow me any farther you shall never have another anna. ’
‘Pike-san pay-like! ’

‘You fool,’ he said, ‘what good is this doing? How can I give you the money when I have
not another pice on me? ’

‘That is a likely story! ’

He felt helplessly in his pockets. He was so wearied that he would have given her
anything to be rid of her. His fingers encountered his cigarette-case, which was of gold.
He took it out.

‘Here, if I give you this will you go away? You can pawn it for thirty rupees. ’


Ma Hla May seemed to consider, then said sulkily, ‘Give it me. ’



He threw the cigarette-case on to the grass beside the road. She grabbed it and
immediately sprang back clutching it to her ingyi, as though afraid that he would take it
away again. He turned and made for the house, thanking God to be out of the sound of
her voice. The cigarette-case was the same one that she had stolen ten days ago.

At the gate he looked back. Ma Hla May was still standing at the bottom of the hill, a
greyish figurine in the moonlight. She must have watched him up the hill like a dog
watching a suspicious stranger out of sight. It was queer. The thought crossed his mind,
as it had a few days earlier when she sent him the blackmailing letter, that her behaviour
had been curious and unlike herself. She was showing a tenacity of which he would never
have thought her capable — almost, indeed, as though someone else were egging her on.


CHAPTER 18

After the row overnight Ellis was looking forward to a week of baiting Flory. He had
nicknamed him Nancy — short for nigger’s Nancy Boy, but the women did not know
that — and was already inventing wild scandals about him. Ellis always invented scandals
about anyone with whom he had quarrelled — scandals which grew, by repeated
embroideries, into a species of saga. Flory’s incautious remark that Dr Veraswami was a
‘damned good fellow’ had swelled before long into a whole Daily Worker-ful of
blasphemy and sedition.

‘On my honour, Mrs Lackersteen,’ said Ellis — Mrs Lackersteen had taken a sudden
dislike to Flory after discovering the great secret about Verrall, and she was quite ready
to listen to Ellis’s tales — ‘on my honour, if you’d been there last night and heard the
things that man Flory was saying — well, it’d have made you shiver in your shoes! ’

‘Really! You know, I always thought he had such CURIOUS ideas. What has he been
talking about now? Not SOCIALISM, I hope? ’


‘Worse. ’



There were long recitals. However, to Ellis’s disappointment, Flory had not stayed in
Kyauktada to be baited. He had gone back to camp the day after his dismissal by
Elizabeth. Elizabeth heard most of the scandalous tales about him. She understood his
character perfectly now. She understood why it was that he had so often bored her and
irritated her. He was a highbrow — her deadliest word — a highbrow, to be classed with
Lenin, A. J. Cook and the dirty little poets in the Montparnasse cafes. She could have
forgiven him even his Burmese mistress more easily than that. Flory wrote to her three
days later; a weak, stilted letter, which he sent by hand — his camp was a day’s march
from Kyauktada. Elizabeth did not answer.

It was lucky for Flory that at present he was too busy to have time to think. The whole
camp was at sixes and sevens since his long absence. Nearly thirty coolies were missing,
the sick elephant was worse than ever, and a vast pile of teak logs which should have
been sent off ten days earlier were still waiting because the engine would not work.
Flory, a fool about machinery, struggled with the bowels of the engine until he was black
with grease and Ko S’la told him sharply that white men ought not to do ‘coolie- work’.
The engine was finally persuaded to run, or at least to totter. The sick elephant was
discovered to be suffering from tapeworms. As for the coolies, they had deserted because
their supply of opium had been cut off — they would not stay in the jungle without opium,
which they took as a prophylactic against fever. U Po Kyin, willing to do Flory a bad
turn, had caused the Excise Officers to make a raid and seize the opium. Flory wrote to
Dr Veraswami, asking for his help. The doctor sent back a quantity of opium, illegally
procured, medicine for the elephant and a careful letter of instructions. A tapeworm
measuring twenty-one feet was extracted. Flory was busy twelve hours a day. In the
evening if there was no more to do he would plunge into the jungle and walk and walk
until the sweat stung his eyes and his knees were bleeding from the briers. The nights
were his bad time. The bitterness of what had happened was sinking into him, as it
usually does, by slow degrees.

Meanwhile, several days had passed and Elizabeth had not yet seen Verrall at less than a
hundred yards’ distance. It had been a great disappointment when he had not appeared at
the Club on the evening of his arrival. Mr Lackersteen was really quite angry when he
discovered that he had been hounded into his dinner-jacket for nothing. Next morning
Mrs Lackersteen made her husband send an officious note to the dakbungalow, inviting



Verrall to the Club; there was no answer, however. More days passed, and Verrall made
no move to join in the local society. He had even neglected his official calls, not even
bothering to present himself at Mr Macgregor’s office. The dakbungalow was at the other
end of the town, near the station, and he had made himself quite comfortable there. There
is a rule that one must vacate a dakbungalow after a stated number of days, but Verrall
peaceably ignored it. The Europeans only saw him at morning and evening on the
maidan. On the second day after his arrival fifty of his men turned out with sickles and
cleared a large patch of the maidan, after which Verrall was to be seen galloping to and
fro, practising polo strokes. He took not the smallest notice of any Europeans who passed
down the road. Westfield and Ellis were furious, and even Mr Macgregor said that
Verrall’ s behaviour was ‘ungracious’. They would all have fallen at the feet of a
lieutenant the Honourable if he had shown the smallest courtesy; as it was, everyone
except the two women detested him from the start. It is always so with titled people, they
are either adored or hated. If they accept one it is channing simplicity, if they ignore one
it is loathsome snobbishness; there are no half-measures.

Verrall was the youngest son of a peer, and not at all rich, but by the method of seldom
paying a bill until a writ was issued against him, he managed to keep himself in the only
things he seriously cared about: clothes and horses. He had come out to India in a British
cavalry regiment, and exchanged into the Indian Army because it was cheaper and left
him greater freedom for polo. After two years his debts were so enormous that he entered
the Burma Military Police, in which it was notoriously possible to save money; however,
he detested Burma — it is no country for a horseman — and he had already applied to go
back to his regiment. He was the kind of soldier who can get exchanges when he wants
them. Meanwhile, he was only to be in Kyauktada for a month, and he had no intention of
mixing himself up with all the petty sahiblog of the district. He knew the society of those
small Burma stations — a nasty, poodle-faking, horseless riffraff. He despised them.

They were not the only people whom Verrall despised, however. His various contempts
would take a long time to catalogue in detail. He despised the entire non-military
population of India, a few famous polo players excepted. He despised the entire Army as
well, except the cavalry. He despised all Indian regiments, infantry and cavalry alike. It
was true that he himself belonged to a native regiment, but that was only for his own
convenience. He took no interest in Indians, and his Urdu consisted mainly of swear-



words, with all the verbs in the third person singular. His Military Policemen he looked
on as no better than coolies. ‘Christ, what God-forsaken swine! ’ he was often heard to
mutter as he moved down the ranks inspecting, with the old subahdar carrying his sword
behind him. Verrall had even been in trouble once for his outspoken opinions on native
troops. It was at a review, and Verrall was among the group of officers standing behind
the general. An Indian infantry regiment approached for the march-past.

‘The Rifles,’ somebody said.

‘AND look at it,’ said Verrall in his surly boy’s voice.

The white-haired colonel of the Rifles was standing near. He flushed to the neck,

and reported Verrall to the general. Verrall was reprimanded, but the general, a British
Army officer himself, did not rub it in very hard. Somehow, nothing very serious ever did
happen to Verrall, however offensive he made himself. Up and down India, wherever he
was stationed, he left behind him a trail of insulted people, neglected duties and unpaid
bills. Yet the disgraces that ought to have fallen on him never did. He bore a channed
life, and it was not only the handle to his name that saved him. There was something in
his eye before which duns, hurra memsahibs and even colonels quailed.

It was a disconcerting eye, pale blue and a little protuberant, but exceedingly clear. It
looked you over, weighed you in the balance and found you wanting, in a single cold
scrutiny of perhaps five seconds. If you were the right kind of man — that is, if you were a
cavalry officer and a polo player — Verrall took you for granted and even treated you with
a surly respect; if you were any other type of man whatever, he despised you so utterly
that he could not have hidden it even if he would. It did not even make any difference
whether you were rich or poor, for in the social sense he was not more than normally a
snob. Of course, like all sons of rich families, he thought poverty disgusting and that poor
people are poor because they prefer disgusting habits. But he despised soft living.
Spending, or rather owing, fabulous sums on clothes, he yet lived almost as ascetically as
a monk. He exercised himself ceaselessly and brutally, rationed his drink and his
cigarettes, slept on a camp bed (in silk pyjamas) and bathed in cold water in the bitterest
winter. Horsemanship and physical fitness were the only gods he knew. The stamp of
hoofs on the maidan, the strong, poised feeling of his body, wedded centaurlike to the



saddle, the polo-stick springy in his hand — these were his religion, the breath of his life.
The Europeans in Burma — boozing, womanizing, yellow-faced loafers — made him
physically sick when he thought of their habits. As for social duties of all descriptions, he
called them poodle-faking and ignored them. Women he abhorred. In his view they were
a kind of siren whose one aim was to lure men away from polo and enmesh them in tea-
fights and tennis-parties. He was not, however, quite proof against women. He was
young, and women of nearly all kinds threw themselves at his head; now and again he
succumbed. But his lapses soon disgusted him, and he was too callous when the pinch
came to have any difficulty about escaping. He had had perhaps a dozen such escapes
during his two years in India.

A whole week went by. Elizabeth had not even succeeded in making Verrall’s
acquaintance. It was so tantalizing! Every day, morning and evening, she and her aunt
walked down to the Club and back again, past the maidan; and there was Verrall, hitting
the polo-balls the sepoys threw for him, ignoring the two women utterly. So near and yet
so far! What made it even worse was that neither woman would have considered it decent
to speak of the matter directly. One evening the polo-ball, struck too hard, came swishing
through the grass and rolled across the road in front of them. Elizabeth and her aunt
stopped involuntarily. But it was only a sepoy who ran to fetch the ball. Verrall had seen
the women and kept his distance.