“_My_ programme is as follows: Poonah races, Secunderabad races, Madras races, a big game shoot in Travancore, expense no object, elephants, beaters, club-cook, coolies with letters, and ice for the champagne. Then I shall run him about in the train a bit, and show him Delhi, Agra, Jeypore; after that we will put in the end of the cold weather in Calcutta. I have lots of pals there, and from Calcutta we will go to the hills, to Shirani. I shall be glad to see the old club again--many a fleeting hour have I spent there!” “That same club had a shocking bad name for gambling and bear fighting,” said Major Byng significantly. “I believe it had, now you mention it; but you may be sure that it has reformed--like myself.” “And this young fellow--what is he like?” “Quiet, gentlemanly, easy-going, easily pleased, thinks every one a good sort,” and Waring laughed derisively; “abhors all fuss or show, never bets, never gets up in the morning with a head, no expensive tastes.” “In fact, his tastes are miserably beneath his opportunities! What a pity it is that the millionaire is not _your_ uncle!” “Yes, instead of merely brother-in-law, and brothers-in-law are notoriously unfeeling. However, I have adopted mine as my own blood relation, for the present. _I_ boss the show. Come and dine with me to-night, and tell me all the ‘gup,’ and give me the straight tip for the Arab purse.” “All right. Is this young Jervis a sportsman?” “He is a first-class man on a horse, and he plays polo, but he does not go in for racing--more’s the pity!” “Plays polo, does he? By Jove!” and an eager light shone in the major’s little greenish eyes. “I’ve a couple of ponies for sale----” “He does not want them now, whatever he may do later in Calcutta or in the hills. I shall be looking out for three or four for myself, good sound ones, mind you, Byng, up to weight. I’ve put on flesh, you see, but I dare say my anxious responsibilities will wear me down a bit. Jervis does not weigh more than ten stone, and, talk of the devil, here he comes.” Major Byng turned his head quickly, as at this moment Waring’s travelling companion, a slight, active-looking young man, entered the compound, closely pursued by a swarm of hawkers, and their accompanying train of coolies, bearing on their heads the inevitable Poonah figures, hand-screens, pottery, beetle-work, silks, silver, and jewellery. “I say, Waring,” he called out as he approached, “just look at me! One would think I was a queen bee. If this goes on, you will have to consign me to a lunatic asylum, if there is such a place out here.” “Mark, let me introduce you to my old friend, Major Byng.” Major Byng bent forward in his chair--to stand up was too great an exertion even to greet a possible purchaser of polo ponies--smiled affably, and said-- “You are only just out, I understand. How do you like India?”