"
--Burke: "Reflections on the Revolution in France."
They were sitting in the veranda of "the splendid palace of an Indian Pro-
Consul"; surrounded by all the glory and mystery of the immemorial East. In
plain English it was a one-storied, ten-roomed, whitewashed, mud-roofed
bungalow, set in a dry garden of dusty tamarisk trees and divided from the
road by a low mud wall. The green parrots screamed overhead as they flew in
battalions to the river for their morning drink. Beyond the wall, clouds of
fine dust showed where the cattle and goats of the city were passing afield to
graze. The remorseless white light of the winter sunshine of Northern India
lay upon everything and improved nothing, from the whining Persian-wheel by
the lawn-tennis court to the long perspective of level road and the blue,
domed tombs of Mohammedan saints just visible above the trees.
"A Happy New Year," said Orde to his guest. "It's the first you've ever spent
out of England, isn't it?"
"Yes. 'Happy New Year," said Pagett, smiling at the sunshine. "What a divine
climate you have here! Just think of the brown cold fog hanging over London
now!" And he rubbed his hands.
It was more than twenty years since he had last seen Orde, his schoolmate, and
their paths in the world had divided early.
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