Mrs. Goldring, like the doctor, did not fail to note the Collector's unusual air of accessibility, and decided to make hay when the sun shone. Afternoon tea being a beverage she knew he abhorred, she saw no reason why she should not draw him aside without delay and put him in possession of the facts necessary for his guidance at this juncture. "Duty obliges me to enlighten him! As Mrs. Samptor says, 'Who if not I?' What a mercy he happens to be in good humour! My task will be an easy one. Everybody knows that, gruff and ungracious as he often is, Mr. Worsley is a well-born English gentleman, and no doubt he will not brook this latest insult of having a half-caste thrust upon him!" With these reflections, Mrs. Goldring, in her most sprightly manner, advanced towards the Collector. "Since you and I both hate croquet, which seems to be the order of the afternoon here, suppose we have a stroll, Mr. Worsley?" "Well, I don't object to a stroll. Gouty limbs don't take kindly to this sunset hour under a tree. But who said I loathed croquet?" asked the Collector sharply, his eye travelling towards the lawn where mallets were being chosen and all seemed in train for a social hour. "A mere assumption on your part, madam! On the contrary, I consider croquet an excellent game and a great adjunct to sociability." "What a bear he is! His love of carping always comes to me like a slap on the face! But wait till he hears my piece of news. Well I know he hates natives and half-castes, and croquet into the bargain, but I'll let him off with that for the moment," thought Mrs. Goldring, as she prepared to play her trump card. Trailing her long rustling skirts across the grass while the Collector sauntered at a safe distance, she led the way to the most sequestered walk in the compound. At first she only hazarded a few desultory remarks interspersed with faint praise of her hostess's gardening powers, for the little lady held the acknowledged palm in all floral matters throughout the station. But the Collector seemed to require some topic of keener interest to rouse him. How gratified she felt to think she held the trump card in her hand! Turning towards him, she said suddenly: "I'm really surprised to see the new Assistant such a decent-looking young man!" "Decent! Your choice of such an adjective is hardly happy, madam," said the Collector, raising his bushy eyebrows. "Mr. Cheveril is a civilian like your husband and myself." "Ah, but with a sad difference," cried Mrs. Goldring, clasping her hands dramatically. "I grieve to have to shock you, Mr. Worsley, but better now than later. In fact I feel it is my bounden duty to unbosom myself at once of this painful secret." "Bless my soul, what is it?" asked the Collector, pulling himself up with a start. "Yes, I saw from your manner to him that you had not heard. Well, the poor young man is actually a half-caste! Does not even deny it, I'm told--speaks of his shame quite openly."