still looking at Elizabeth when he answered, but the change in his voice was remarkable.
‘I’ve been meaning to come for some days. Been so fearfully busy—getting my men into their quarters and all that. I’m sorry,’ he added—he was not in the habit of apologising, but really, he had decided, this girl was rather an exceptional bit of stuff—‘I’m sorry about not answering your note.’
‘Oh, not at all! We quite understood. But we do hope we shall see you at the Club this evening? Because you know,’ she concluded even more archly, ‘if you disappoint us any longer, we shall begin to think you rather a naughty young man!’
‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated. ‘I’ll be there this evening.’
There was not much more to be said, and the two women walked on to the Club. But they stayed barely five minutes. The grass-seeds were causing their shins such torment that they were obliged to hurry home and change their stockings at once.
Verrall kept his promise and was at the Club that evening. He arrived a little earlier than the others, and he had made his presence thoroughly felt before being in the place five minutes. As Ellis entered the Club the old butler darted out of the card-room and waylaid him. He was in great distress, the tears rolling down his cheeks.
‘Sir! Sir!’
‘What the devil’s the matter now?’ said Ellis.
‘Sir! Sir! New master been beating me, sir!’
‘What?’
‘Beating me, sir!’ His voice rose on the ‘beating’ with a long tearful wail—‘be-e-e-eating!’
‘Beating you? Do you good. Who’s been beating you?’
‘New master, sir. Military Police sahib. Beating me with his foot, sir—here!’ He rubbed himself behind.
‘Hell!’ said Ellis.
He went into the lounge. Verrall was reading the Field, and invisible except for Palm Beach trouser-ends and two lustrous sooty-brown shoes. He did not trouble to stir at hearing someone else come into the room. Ellis halted.
‘Here, you—what’s your name—Verrall!’
‘What?’
‘Have you been kicking our butler?’
Verrall’s sulky blue eye appeared round the corner of the Field, like the eye of a crustacean peering round a rock.
‘What?’ he repeated shortly.
‘I said, have you been kicking our bloody butler?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then what the hell do you mean by it?’
‘Beggar gave me his lip. I sent him for a whisky and soda, and he brought it warm. I told him to put ice in it, and he wouldn’t—talked some bloody rot about saving the last piece of ice. So I kicked his bottom. Serve him right.’
Ellis turned quite grey. He was furious. The butler was a piece of Club property and not to be kicked by strangers. But what most angered Ellis was the thought that Verrall quite possibly suspected him of being sorry for the butler—in fact, of disapproving of kicking as such.
‘Serve him right? I dare say it bloody well did serve him right. But what in hell’s that got to do with it? Who are you to come kicking our servants?’
‘Bosh, my good chap. Needed kicking. You’ve let your servants get out of hand here.’
‘You damned, insolent young tick, what’s it got to do with you if he needed kicking? You’re not even a member of this Club. It’s our job to kick the servants not yours.’
Verrall lowered the Field and brought his other eye into play. His surly voice did not change its tone. He never lost his temper with a European; it was never necessary.
‘My good chap, if anyone gives me lip I kick his bottom. Do you want me to kick yours?’
All the fire went out of Ellis suddenly. He was not afraid, he had never been afraid in his life; only, Verrall’s eye was too much for him. That eye could make you feel as though you were under Niagara! The oaths wilted on Ellis’s lips; his voice almost deserted him. He said querulously and even plaintively:
‘But damn it, he was quite right not to give you the last bit of ice. Do you think we only buy ice for you? We can only get the stuff twice a week in this place.’
‘Rotten bad management on your part, then,’ said Verrall, and retired behind the Field, content to let the matter drop.
Ellis was helpless. The calm way in which Verrall went back to his paper, quite genuinely forgetting Ellis’s existence, was maddening. Should he not give the young swab a good, rousing kick?
But somehow, the kick was never given. Verrall had earned many kicks in his life, but he had never received one and probably never would. Ellis seeped helplessly back to the card-room, to work off his feelings on the butler, leaving Verrall in possession of the lounge.
As Mr Macgregor entered the Club gate he heard the sound of music. Yellow chinks of lantern-light showed through the creeper that covered the tennis-screen. Mr Macgregor was in a happy mood this evening. He had promised himself a good, long talk with Miss Lackersteen—such an exceptionally intelligent girl, that!—and he had a most interesting anecdote to tell her (as a matter of fact, it had already seen the light in one of those little articles of his in Blackwood’s) about a dacoity that had happened in Sagaing in 1913. She would love to hear it, he knew. He rounded the tennis-screen expectantly. On the court, in the mingled light of the waning moon and of lanterns slung among the trees, Verrall and Elizabeth were dancing. The chokras had brought out chairs and a table for the gramophone, and round these the other Europeans were sitting or standing. As Mr Macgregor halted at the corner of the court, Verrall and Elizabeth circled round and glided past him, barely a yard away. They were dancing very close together, her body bent backwards under his. Neither noticed Mr Macgregor.
Mr Macgregor made his way round the court. A chilly, desolate feeling had taken possession of his entrails. Good-bye, then, to his talk with Miss Lackersteen! It was an effort to screw his face into its usual facetious good-humour as he came up to the table.
‘A Terpsichorean evening!’ he remarked in a voice that was doleful in spite of himself.
No one answered. They were all watching the pair on the tennis court. Utterly oblivious of the others, Elizabeth and Verrall glided round and round, round and round, their shoes sliding easily on the slippery concrete. Verrall danced as he rode, with matchless grace. The gramophone was playing ‘Show Me the Way to Go Home’, which was then going round the world like a pestilence and had got as far as Burma:
Show me the way to go home,
I’m tired an’ I wanna go to bed;
I had a little drink ’bout an hour ago,
An’ it’s gone right to my head! etc.
The dreary, depressing trash floated out among the shadowy trees and the streaming scents of flowers, over and over again, for Mrs Lackersteen was putting the gramophone needle back to the start when it neared the centre. The moon climbed higher, very yellow, looking, as she rose from the murk of dark clouds at the horizon, like a sick woman creeping out of bed. Verrall and Elizabeth danced on and on, indefatigably, a pale voluptuous shape in the gloom. They moved in perfect unison like some single animal. Mr Macgregor, Ellis, Westfield and Mr Lackersteen stood watching them, their hands in their pockets, finding nothing to say. The mosquitoes came nibbling at their ankles. Someone called for drinks, but the whisky was like ashes in their mouths. The bowels of all four older men were twisted with bitter envy.
Verrall did not ask Mrs Lackersteen for a dance, nor, when he and Elizabeth finally sat down, did he take any notice of the other Europeans. He merely monopolised Elizabeth for half an hour more, and then with a brief good night to the Lackersteens and not a word to anyone else, left the Club. The long dance with Verrall