“Yes, it surrenders!” shrieked Mrs Rayne.

“No, it defies you,” shouted Ford.

“Then die, sir!” cried Cutter and charging forward transfixed the cushion, at the same time tripping up in a rug in the process, with the result that he collapsed in a whirlwind of feathers on the floor.

“It’s just a joke,” explained Burlton to Fleury, who was amazed and shaken by this latest development. “He’s always up to something. What a clown he is!”

“Who is this griffin?” shouted Cutter, fighting his way out of the rug with which his spurs had become entangled. “Who is this milk-sop? Do you surrender, sir?” And drawing back his sabre once again he seemed to be on the point of running Fleury through.

“Yes, he surrenders!” shouted everyone except Fleury, who merely stood there, too dazed to speak, with the point of the sabre patrolling the buttons of his waistcoat.

“Oh, very well then,” said Cutter. “No thanks, Rayne, you can keep your Calcutta champagne. I only drink Todd and James, my horse drinks that rubbish. Monkey, bring brandy pawnee!” But Monkey was evidently familiar with Lieutenant Cutter’s tastes for he was already hastening forward with a tray.

“Does Beeswing really drink simkin?” Mrs Rayne wanted to know, for it seemed that Cutter had given his horse the name of the celebrated Calcutta mare. At this, Cutter, who had sunk despondently on to the feather-strewn sofa with his boots and spurs dangling over the end, started up again with a roar and nothing would do but that Beeswing, who all this time had been standing patiently by the window and occasionally dropping his head to try and crop the Persian rug on which he was standing, should join the party too and drink his fill. Ram hurried in with another bottle and a bowl, but Cutter ignored the bowl and seized a solar topee from a side table; into this he splashed the contents of the bottle, guffawing and shouting encouragement to his horse. When the champagne was stuck under his nose Beeswing, who was thirsty from his canter in the late afternoon heat, began to lap it up with a will.

The sun was already low on the horizon and Fleury was anxious to return home to see if Miriam had returned and to find out if by any chance the Dunstaples wanted to invite him to supper. But such was the jollity surrounding Beeswing that he had the greatest difficulty attracting the attention of his host.

“What? Can you be off already?” exclaimed Rayne. “I haven’t yet had a chance to talk to you … A talk about civilization, that’s what I wanted to have! You ask Mrs Rayne if I didn’t say to her: ‘I’ll ask him over and we’ll have a serious chat about civilization.’ My very words. And now you’re showing a clean pair of heels.”

“I’d be most happy … another time, perhaps. I wonder would you mind asking one of your bearers to accompany me?”

Rayne shouted a command, but then he had to return his attention to Cutter, because he and Ford had just concluded an extravagant wager: namely, a dozen of claret that he and Beeswing could not spring from the compound over the verandah and in through the drawing-room window in one great leap Fleury said goodbye to the ladies and hurried away with Chloë frisking ahead; he was by no means anxious to witness this reckless feat.

4

Dark circles had appeared round the Collector’s eyes, and the eyes themselves stared more moodily than ever at other members of the congregation during evening service in the Church; at other times during the service he was seen to hold his head unnaturally still; it was as if his features were carved in rock, on which the only movement was the stirring of the whiskers in the breeze from the punkahs. It was evident that he was having trouble in sleeping for soon he ordered one of the bearers to seek a sleeping draught from the doctor. Dr Dunstaple happened to be away at the time so it was Dr McNab who found himself summoned to attend the Collector. He found him in his bedroom beside the open French window giving on to the verandah.

Dr McNab had only recently come to Krishnapur. His wife had died a couple of years earlier in some other Indian station; otherwise, not much was known about him, apart from what Dr Dunstaple supplied in the way of amusing anecdotes about his medical procedures. His manner was formal and reticent; although still quite young he had a middle-aged and melancholy air and, like many gloomy people, he looked discreet. He had never entered the Collector’s bedroom before and was impressed by the elegance with which it was furnished: the thickness of the carpet, the polish of the tables and wardrobes, the grandeur of the Collector’s four-poster bed, inherited from a previous Resident, which to a man grown accustomed to the humble charpoy appeared unusually impressive.

The Collector looked round briefly as Dr McNab entered, and invited him to come to the window, from where there was an excellent view to the south-west, over the stable yard, over the Cutcherry, to the recently built ramparts of dried mud baking in the afternoon glare.

“Well, McNab, d’you think they will keep out the sepoys if they attack us here as they did at Meerut?”

“I confess I know nothing about military matters, Mr Hopkins.”

The Collector laughed, but in a humourless way. “That’s a judicious reply, McNab. But perhaps you are better fitted to judge the state of mind of a man who builds a fortress in the middle of a peaceful countryside. Doctor, I’m well aware of what is being said about me in the cantonment on account of the mud ramparts down there.”

Dr McNab frowned but remained silent. His eyes, which had been on the Collector’s face, dropped to the fingers of his right hand which were too tightly clenched around the lapel of his frock coat in what would have been, otherwise, the calm, and commanding posture of a statesman posing for his portrait.

“If no trouble develops in the end, Mr Hopkins, no doubt you will look a fool,” he said, then added grimly: “But perhaps it is your duty.”

The Collector looked surprised for a moment. “You’re quite right, McNab. It’s my duty. I have a duty towards the women and children under my protection. Besides, I myself am a family man … I must think of protecting my own children. Perhaps you think that I give too little thought to my children? Perhaps you think that I don’t have their welfare sufficiently at heart?” He stared at McNab suspiciously.

“Mr Hopkins, I know nothing of your personal life.” This was almost true, but not quite. A short time earlier McNab had happened upon the Collector’s children in a velvet brood being escorted by their ayah along one of the Residency corridors. And he had remembered hearing that it was by the Collector’s order that these children continued to wear velvet, flannel and wool, while the other children in the cantonment were dressed in cotton or muslin for the hot weather. Even as children, it seemed, they had a position to keep up in the community. Only perhaps in the hottest period, when he chanced to notice how red-faced his offspring had become, might the Collector permit a change to summer clothing.

“I can assure you, Dr McNab. that I am as much loved by my children as any father was ever loved,” said the Collector, as if reading his mind.

McNab shook his head soothingly, implying that it would never have occurred to him to think otherwise, but the Collector paid no attention to him; instead, he snatched up a leather-bound volume from the table and flourished it. “You see, my daughters bring me their diaries to read so that I may exercise supervision over their lives … I require them to do so, as any right-thinking father would. Every Sunday evening I read a sermon to them and to my other children, by Arnold or Kingsley, just as any father would. Why, I even prepared my manservant, Vokins, for confirmation by hearing his catechism! I think that you can hardly accuse me of neglecting my duty towards my household …”