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‘Oh, shut up! I’m sick of the subject. Veraswami’s a damned good fellow–a damned sight better
than some white men I can think of. Anyway, I’m going to propose his name for the Club when the
general meeting comes. Perhaps he’ll liven this bloody place up a bit.’
Whereat the row would have become serious if it had not ended as most rows ended at the Club–
with the appearance of the butler, who had heard the raised voices.
‘Did master call, sir?’
‘No. Go to hell,’ said Ellis morosely.
The butler retired, but that was the end of the dispute for the time being. At this moment there were
footsteps and voices outside; the Lackersteens were arriving at the Club.
When they entered the lounge, Flory could not even nerve himself to look directly at Elizabeth; but
he noticed that all three of them were much more smartly dressed man usual. Mr Lackersteen was
even wearing a dinner-jacket–white, because of the season–and was completely sober. The boiled
shirt and piqué waistcoat seemed to hold him upright and stiffen his moral fibre like a breastplate.
Mrs Lackersteen looked handsome and serpentine in a red dress. In some indefinable way all three
gave the impression that they were waiting to receive some distinguished guest.
When drinks had been called for, and Mrs Lackersteen had usurped the place under the punkah,
Flory took a chair on the outside of the group. He dared not accost Elizabeth yet. Mrs Lackersteen had
begun talking in an extraordinary, silly manner about the dear Prince of Wales, and putting on an
accent like a temporarily promoted chorus-girl playing the part of a duchess in a musical comedy. The
others wondered privately what the devil was the matter with her. Flory had stationed himself almost
behind Elizabeth. She was wearing a yellow frock, cut very short as the fashion then was, with
champagne-coloured stockings and slippers to match, and she carried a big ostrich-feather fan. She
looked so modish, so adult, that he feared her more than he had ever done. It was unbelievable that he
had ever kissed her. She was talking easily to all the others at once, and now and again he dared to
put a word into the general conversation; but she never answered him directly, and whether or not she
meant to ignore him, he could not tell.
‘Well,’ said Mrs Lackersteen presently, ‘and who’s for a rubbah?’
She said quite distinctly a ‘rubbah’. Her accent was growing more aristocratic with every word
she uttered. It was unaccountable. It appeared that Ellis, Westfield and Mr Lackersteen were for a
‘rubbah’. Flory refused as soon as he saw that Elizabeth was not playing. Now or never was his
chance to get her alone. When they all moved for the card-room, he saw with a mixture of fear and
relief that Elizabeth came last. He stopped in the doorway, barring her path. He had turned deadly
pale. She shrank from him a little.
‘Excuse me,’ they both said simultaneously.
‘One moment,’ he said, and do what he would his voice trembled. ‘May I speak to you? You don’t
mind–there’s something I must say.’
‘Will you please let me pass, Mr Flory?’
‘Please! Please! We’re alone now. You won’t refuse just to let me speak?’
‘What is it, then?’