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XVI
The vultures in the big pyinkado trees by the cemetery flapped from their dung-whitened branches,
steadied themselves on the wing, and climbed by vast spirals into the upper air. It was early, but
Flory was out already. He was going down to the Club, to wait until Elizabeth came and men ask her
formally to marry him. Some instinct, which he did not understand, prompted him to do it before the
other Europeans returned from the jungle.
As he came out of the compound gate he saw that there was a new arrival at Kyauktada. A youth
with a long spear like a needle in his hand was cantering across the maidan on a white pony. Some
Sikhs, looking like sepoys, ran after him, leading two other ponies, a bay and a chestnut, by the bridle.
When he came level with him Flory halted on the road and shouted good morning. He had not
recognised the youth, but it is usual in small stations to make strangers welcome. The other saw that
he was hailed, wheeled his pony negligently round and brought it to the side of the road. He was a
youth of about twenty-five, lank but very straight, and manifestly a cavalry officer. He had one of
those rabbit-like faces common among English soldiers, with pale blue eyes and a little triangle of
fore-teeth visible between the lips; yet hard, fearless and even brutal in a careless fashion–a rabbit,
perhaps, but a tough and martial rabbit. He sat his horse as though he were part of it, and he looked
offensively young and fit. His fresh face was tanned to the exact shade that went with his lightcoloured
eyes, and he was as elegant as a picture with his white buckskin topi and his polo-boots that
gleamed like an old meerschaum pipe. Hory felt uncomfortable in his presence from the start.
‘How d’you do?’ said Flory. ‘Have you just arrived?’
‘Last night, got in by the late train.’ He had a surly, boyish voice. ‘I’ve been sent up here with a
company of men to stand by in case your local badmashes start any trouble. My name’s Verrall–
Military Police,’ he added, not, however, inquiring Flory’s name in return.
‘Oh yes. We heard they were sending somebody. Where are you putting up?’
‘Dak bungalow, for the time being. There was some black beggar staying there when I got in last
night–Excise Officer or something. I booted him out. This is a filthy hole, isn’t it?’ he said with a
backward movement of his head, indicating the whole of Kyauktada.
‘I suppose it’s like the rest of these small stations. Are you staying long?’
‘Only a month or so, thank God. Till the rains break. What a rotten maidan you’ve got here, haven’t
you? Pity they can’t keep this stuff cut,’ he added, swishing the driedup grass with the point of his
spear. ‘Makes it so hopeless for polo or anything.’