There was a festival arch over the gate when he reached it, and a multitude of little flags, and “WELLCOME” pendent in yellow marigolds. Doyle was pleased that he had come. It was a long time since he had attended a Maharajah’s garden party; its features would be fresh and in some ways soothing. He shook hands gravely with the Maharajah’s eldest son, a slender, subdued, cross-eyed young man in an embroidered smoking-cap and a purple silk frock-coat, and said “Thank you—thank you!” for a programme of the afternoon’s diversions. The programme was printed in gold letters, and he was glad to learn from it that His Highness’s country residence was called “Floral Bower.” This was entirely as it should be. He noticed that the Maharajah had provided wrestling and dancing and theatricals for the amusement of his guests, and resolved to see them all. He had a pleasant sense of a strain momentarily removed, and he did not importune himself to explain it. There were very few English people in the crowd that flocked about the grounds, following with docile admiration the movements of the principal guests; it was easy to keep away from them. He had only to stroll about, and look at the curiously futile arrangement of ponds and grottoes and fountains and summer-houses, and observe how pretty a rose-bush could be in spite of everything and how appropriately brilliant the clothes of the Maharajah’s friends were. Some of the younger ones were playing football, with much laughter and screaming and wonderfully high kicks. He stood and watched them, smilingly reflecting that he would back a couple of Harrovians against the lot. His eyes were still on the boys and the smile was still on his lips when he found himself considering that he would reach England just about the day of Ancram’s wedding. Then he realised that Ancram’s wedding had for him some of the characteristics of a physical ailment which one tries, by forgetting, to conjure out of existence. The football became less amusing, and he was conscious that much of its significance had faded out of the Maharajah’s garden-party. Nevertheless he followed the feebly curved path which led to His Highness’s private menagerie, and it was while he was returning the unsympathetic gaze of a very mangy tiger in a very ramshackle cage, that the reflection came between them, as forcibly as if it were a new one, that he would come back next cold weather to an empty house. Ancram would be married. He acknowledged, still carefully examining the tiger, that he would regret the man less if his departure were due to any other reason; and he tried to determine, without much success, to what extent he could blame himself in that his liking for Ancram had dwindled so considerably during the last few months. By the time he turned his back upon the zoölogical attraction of the afternoon he had fallen into the reverie from which he hoped to escape in the _Oriental_—the