The rhythm of the immortal "Blue Danube" waltz swung through the big Indian ballroom. It was long before two-steps, Bostons, tangos were dreamed of, when, at any rate in India, the _pas de quatre_ was still a novelty, and the "Washington Post" had not yet been introduced. Almost everyone was dancing; the only onlookers were a few partnerless, or non-dancing men, and a sprinkling of senior people whose exile in the East was nearly over. The aged white man or woman is seldom to be encountered in India; they have "done their time" and gone home--or to their graves. Sometimes they stay to live out last years in some more or less salubrious region, but such settlers are dying out, and, with easier transit home, are not replaced; for though living may be less expensive, and cheap luxuries attractive, there is always the loss of prestige and the desire to end their days in England. There seemed no doubt that the final ball of the cold weather season was a triumphant success. The bachelor hosts had spared neither effort nor money to perfect every arrangement, from the par excellent supper upstairs to the most trifling detail below. The compound of the public building was illuminated with row upon row of little lights in coloured glass receptacles, verandas were enclosed and decorated, tents were added too, carpeted and furnished, for the benefit of sitters-out; plants were in profusion, flowers, Chinese lanterns, casual buffets for promiscuous refreshment--nothing was forgotten. Every girl had partners, the programmes of the more popular spinsters had been filled for days, and usually hopeless wallflowers were not allowed to sit neglected as long as a man who could dance was unwary enough to remain unattached in the ballroom. Even the most unattractive of the three Miss Planes ("Plain," "Plainer," "Plainest," as they were called by irreverent subalterns) had been dancing all night, and as a result of enjoyment looked almost attractive. Among the non-dancing men was Captain Coventry; entertainments of this description bored him unutterably. Polo and sport were his recreations, and he could not and would not dance; it was a form of amusement he held in contempt. To-night he felt more disinclined than usual to make himself useful or pleasant. Sullen and solitary, he leaned against the wall in gloomy contrast with the gay festoons of muslin, blue and white and yellow, draped behind him. He was a man not seen at his best in a ballroom, and just at that moment he appeared at his worst, for his wife had danced four times already with the man he most loathed in the station, and again she was dancing with him now. The pair swept by, Kennard tall and dark and serene, Rafella radiant, flushed, abandoned to pleasure, both of them regardless of the sombre, jealous eyes that watched them from the wall.