The sight of that awkward shame and misery drove all personal grief from Nehal's mind. He drew forward a chair and seated himself opposite his companion, clasping his sinewy, well-shaped hands on the table before him. "Let us try and put all formalities aside," he said. "If you can treat me as a friend, let nothing prevent you. We are strangers to each other, but then the whole world is stranger to me. Yet I would be glad to help and understand the world, as I would be glad to help and understand you if you will let me." Geoffries looked shyly at this strange _deus ex machina_, troubled by perplexing considerations. How much had the Rajah heard of the previous conversation, how much had he understood? Above all, what would his comrades say if they found him pouring out his heart to "this fellow," who had been the constant butt for their arrogant contempt? And yet, as often happens, amidst his many friends he was intensely alone. There was no single one to whom he could turn with the burden of his conscience, no one to whom he did not systematically play himself off as something other than he was. And opposite he looked into a face full of grave sympathy, not unshadowed with personal sadness. Yet he hesitated, and Nehal Singh went on thoughtfully: "There are some things I do not understand," he said. "You were playing some game for money. I have heard of that before, but I do not understand. Are you then, so poor?" Geoffries laughed miserably. "I am now," he said. "Then it _is_ money that is the trouble?" "It always is. At first one plays for the fun of the thing and because--oh, well, one has to, don't you know. Afterward, one plays to get it back." "But you have not got it back?" Geoffries shook his head. "I never do," he said. "I'm a rotter at bridge." "A hundred rupees!" Nehal went on reflectively. "That was the sum, I think? It is very little--not enough to cause you any trouble." "Not by itself," Geoffries agreed, with a fresh collapse into his old depression. "But it is the last straw. I'm cut pretty short by the home people, who don't understand, and there are other things--polo ponies, dinner-races, subscriptions--" "And the Bazaar." Geoffries caught his breath and glanced across at the stern, unhappy face. He read there in an instant a pitying contempt which at first seemed ridiculous, and then insolent, and then terrible. Boy as he was, there flashed through his easy-going brain some vague unformed recognition of the unshifting national responsibility which weighs upon the shoulders of the greatest and the least. He understood, though not clearly, that he and his three comrades had dragged themselves and their race in the mud at the feet of a foreigner, and with that shock of understanding came the desire to vindicate himself and the uncounted millions who were linked to him.