Mrs. Samptor, in her rÔle of hostess, welcomed Mrs. Goldring with ceremonious effusiveness, ignoring their parting a few minutes previously. Every time the afternoon entertainment revolved to her compound, Mrs. Samptor felt the delight and importance of the occasion, and certainly she spared no pains to make it pleasant. The fact of her being country born and bred, though it had not impaired her British energy, had given her a mastery over the details of domestic life never attained among the changing Anglo-Indian society. A notable housekeeper, she was well versed in all the tricks of native servants, and got better service from them than anyone else in the station, albeit she ruled them with an iron rod. In bazaar dealing, gardening, pickle-making, and all housewifery lore she was supreme. Being childless, her whole devotion was given to her husband, a big, square-shouldered man with a handsome, good-natured face, who looked like a giant beside his tiny wife as he came forward to greet the visitors.

The only other guests as yet were the young engineer and his wife, and being recent comers, were patronised by the hostess. They sat obediently under the safe shade of a spreading peepul tree on the lawn, where stood the tea-table, which was covered by a spotless linen cloth and groaning with proofs of Mrs. Samptor's skill in the manufacture of cakes.

The Judge at once linked his arm into the jailer's and began to stroll down a shady walk.

"Talking shop, of course! Mrs. Goldring, you should really keep your husband in better order! What can a humble Superintendent of the District Jail do when the Judge leads him into temptation?" said Mrs. Samptor banteringly.

"Yes, the worst of it is, daddy promised to eat a lot of your cakes," remarked Jane bluntly, while her mother groaned inwardly.

"Did he now, dear? How sweet of the Judge! You just go after him, Jane, and pull his coat-tails and remind him of his promise. As for Harry, he won't ever touch anything between tiffin and dinner. But when he eats—he eats!" said Mrs. Samptor, with pantomimic gestures.

"And yet you tempt weaker men by your nice cakes," exclaimed the doctor, who had just arrived. "Is that quite moral?"

"Strictly so, Dr. Campbell, since I happen to know that you haven't broken your fast since early breakfast!"

"How came you to know, Mrs. Samptor? Was it one of the spirits said to inhabit peepul trees that whispered it? Really you are not canny!"

Mrs. Goldring glanced more approvingly at the doctor than she generally did. He was right, this divining little woman was not "canny."

"Is my wife not here?" asked the doctor, glancing round.

"She will be presently," answered the hostess. "I happened to send her some quail Harry shot last night, and as I saw her driving townwards I know she went to share them with Noel Stenhouse, and to see how he is. No wonder he gets down with fever living among those horrid natives and slaving for the good of their souls as he does! You must have come from your hospital by the back way or you would have met her. Ah, there she is! You'll be happy now, doctor!"

Mrs. Samptor went forward to meet a sweet-faced lady who was crossing the lawn. The doctor followed, and husband and wife exchanged greetings which showed that they were still lovers after years of marriage. The sorrow which had visited them on the death of their two little children had only served to draw them closer to each other.

The little group still lingered in the vicinity of the tea-table, the literal-minded Jane having brought her father back to partake of the notable cakes. Presently Mrs. Samptor, with a pleased exclamation, sprang from her wicker chair.

"Ah, here he is—the Collector has actually kept his promise for once! But who has he got with him? Oh, of course, the new Assistant! Dear me, what a handsome young man!" she murmured, and everybody glanced with interest at the pair who came up the avenue, deep in talk.

Mr. Felix Worsley, though such a familiar figure in the station, was seldom seen to such advantage as at this moment.

"If he would oftener look like that what a blessing it would be," muttered Dr. Campbell, whose sharp eyes noted that the usually sombre face was lit up by a certain cheerful alertness; there seemed to be a new light in the dark, penetrating glance often half veiled by folds of heavy eyelids. "What a handsome, personable man the Collector might be if he always held himself like that," further soliloquised the doctor, as he glanced at the well-proportioned figure and beautifully shaped head showing a thick grizzly thatch as he bared it in response to Mrs. Samptor's greeting.

"Oh, Alan, he does look nice," whispered Mrs. Campbell; whereupon the doctor asked with a smile:

"Which? I'm so taken up with the Collector's wakened-up appearance, I've no eyes for the new-comer yet. Yes, but he does look a fine, straight young fellow," he added, glancing at Mark Cheveril with approving eyes.

Presently introductions were effected all round, and Mark found himself under the peepul tree drinking tea and looking with keen interest at the new faces which would soon become familiar to him.

Mrs. Goldring, like the doctor, did not fail to note the Collector's unusual air of accessibility, and decided to make hay when the sun shone. Afternoon tea being a beverage she knew he abhorred, she saw no reason why she should not draw him aside without delay and put him in possession of the facts necessary for his guidance at this juncture. "Duty obliges me to enlighten him! As Mrs. Samptor says, 'Who if not I?' What a mercy he happens to be in good humour! My task will be an easy one. Everybody knows that, gruff and ungracious as he often is, Mr. Worsley is a well-born English gentleman, and no doubt he will not brook this latest insult of having a half-caste thrust upon him!"

With these reflections, Mrs. Goldring, in her most sprightly manner, advanced towards the Collector.

"Since you and I both hate croquet, which seems to be the order of the afternoon here, suppose we have a stroll, Mr. Worsley?"

"Well, I don't object to a stroll. Gouty limbs don't take kindly to this sunset hour under a tree. But who said I loathed croquet?" asked the Collector sharply, his eye travelling towards the lawn where mallets were being chosen and all seemed in train for a social hour. "A mere assumption on your part, madam! On the contrary, I consider croquet an excellent game and a great adjunct to sociability."

"What a bear he is! His love of carping always comes to me like a slap on the face! But wait till he hears my piece of news. Well I know he hates natives and half-castes, and croquet into the bargain, but I'll let him off with that for the moment," thought Mrs. Goldring, as she prepared to play her trump card.

Trailing her long rustling skirts across the grass while the Collector sauntered at a safe distance, she led the way to the most sequestered walk in the compound. At first she only hazarded a few desultory remarks interspersed with faint praise of her hostess's gardening powers, for the little lady held the acknowledged palm in all floral matters throughout the station. But the Collector seemed to require some topic of keener interest to rouse him. How gratified she felt to think she held the trump card in her hand! Turning towards him, she said suddenly: "I'm really surprised to see the new Assistant such a decent-looking young man!"

"Decent! Your choice of such an adjective is hardly happy, madam," said the Collector, raising his bushy eyebrows. "Mr. Cheveril is a civilian like your husband and myself."

"Ah, but with a sad difference," cried Mrs. Goldring, clasping her hands dramatically. "I grieve to have to shock you, Mr. Worsley, but better now than later. In fact I feel it is my bounden duty to unbosom myself at once of this painful secret."

"Bless my soul, what is it?" asked the Collector, pulling himself up with a start.

"Yes, I saw from your manner to him that you had not heard. Well, the poor young man is actually a half-caste! Does not even deny it, I'm told—speaks of his shame quite openly."

"H'm, has he confided in you, madam?"

"Now you know, Mr. Worsley, that is not possible, seeing I saw him for the first time only five minutes ago. But, believe me, I have the information first hand——"

"Would you believe it, madam, so have I? Would you be surprised to learn that I heard it from the young man himself? I suppose I must accept that as 'first hand'; and I must further tell you he has rather scored in my eyes in making this avowal!"

"What! Do you mean to say you are to be satisfied with a half-caste?" cried Mrs. Goldring, retreating a step, her face purple with indignation. "You are surely not going to expose us to such a situation. I reckoned, Collector, you had only to be told the fact to see it to be your duty as head of this station to try at least and arrange a transference as soon as possible," she gasped, hoping that even if no practicable step could be taken she could at least set the Collector against the young man.

"You reckoned without your host, I fear, madam. You will require to rearrange your views as to the acceptance of this new servant of the Government for Puranapore—that's all. I also am only a servant."

"Pooh, as if you hadn't got young Printer spirited away quickly enough because he didn't hit it off with you——"

"That remark of yours, madam, implies a liberty to which I am unused," said the Collector, drawing himself up with a haughty air. After a moment's silence he lifted his hat, and was about to move away when Mrs. Samptor came hurrying up.

"Oh, Mr. Worsley, I've found you at last! Why ever did you take him to the most forsaken part of the garden, Mrs. Goldring?—especially seeing he comes so seldom; I'm always anxious to impress the Collector favourably——"

"Which you succeed in doing," said Mr. Worsley, with a courtly bow, relieved that his tÊte-À-tÊte was having such a definite interruption, for he was doubtful if he had attained his end in getting rid of the irate lady.

"I've just come to ask you if you will take dinner with Samptor and me to-night, and bring that charming Mr. Cheveril with you. The Judge has just been saying what an acquisition he will be to our little circle, and I'm sure we're all of the same mind—now we've seen him," wound up the audacious little lady, stealing a glance at Mrs. Goldring's discomfited countenance.

The Collector was inwardly much gratified that Mrs. Samptor should have bestowed on his new Assistant such a timely and hearty certificate in the hearing of his detractor, but not even his sense of gratification could induce him to accept her proposal of dining out. He was too wedded to his own surroundings either in camp or bungalow to be persuaded to exchange them of an evening, but he softened his refusal by saying: "Mr. Cheveril will no doubt be delighted to be your guest one evening before long, meanwhile, till his luggage arrives, he has consented to be mine."

"Oh, well, I shall wait till he takes possession of his own solitary bungalow, then I shall secure him! Oh dear, if that isn't a big goat trespassing among my precious crotons," and, tucking up her skirts, the little lady darted after the intruder.

The Collector stood watching her with a comical smile on his face, while Mrs. Goldring gazed with sullen contempt on what she afterwards described as "Mrs. Samptor's vulgar antics."

Not content with protecting the crotons, the agile lady was bent on chasing the trespasser from the compound, but the Indian black goat was more than a match for her. Scrambling up a tree, he clung there, looking down triumphantly; but the owner of the trampled crotons was not to be outdone. Up she scrambled after him, though it was only on receiving some stinging cuffs that the goat acknowledged himself beaten and made off.

"Wonderful person that! When would you or I have energy to perform such a feat, Mrs. Goldring?" said the Collector, shaking with laughter as he went forward to proffer assistance. Mrs. Samptor, however, disclaimed his help and alighted airily on the ground, making him an elegant curtsey with outspread skirts.

"Well done, Mrs. Samptor! My only regret is that your husband did not witness the acrobatic performance. Mrs. Goldring and I were too small an audience."

The Judge's wife scorned the imputation of being one of the spectators of such a scene. In fact, she afterwards explained, she tried to shut her eyes during its progress. She moved off in majestic solitude, filled with even more resentment against the little woman than she felt against the Collector for his scathing rebuke.

Mrs. Samptor, meanwhile, was unconscious of treachery. Of the chameleon type, she had no scruples in changing her point of view when brought face to face with the frank young civilian; moreover, his gracious acceptance of her hospitality had quite won her heart.

"Let Mrs. Pate say what she likes, that boy is not an East Indian, Harry!" she whispered to her husband. "Anyhow, I'll not believe it! I'm off to warn Mrs. Goldring not to say a word about it to the Collector. She'll catch it if she does, if I'm not mistaken. I can see from the look of his eyelids that he has taken a fancy to the young man already"; and off she had bounded to the croton walk, to perceive, however, that she had come too late. "The fat was in the fire," she narrated to her husband that evening as they sat in the verandah after dinner. "I couldn't help the woman mismanaging him, could I now, Harry? If she'd had eyes in her head she could have seen the Collector was as pleased with the boy as a child with its latest toy. It really wasn't my fault if she brought down his wrath upon herself, was it now?"

The jailer was too deep in his after dinner nap to make any response, but Mrs. Samptor was used to forego responses, and frequently counted them as spoken when the only reply was a snore.