THE DREAM


It was a fortnight after the wedding, on an evening of intense heat,
that Everard Monck, now established with Tommy at The Green Bungalow,
came in from polo to find the mail awaiting him. He sauntered in through
the verandah in search of a drink which he expected to find in the room
which Stella during her brief sojourn had made more dainty and artistic
than the rest, albeit it had never been dignified by the name of
drawing-room. There was light green matting on the floor and there were
also light green cushions in each of the long wicker chairs. Curtains of
green gauze hung before the windows, and the fierce sunlight filtering
through gave the room a strangely translucent effect. It was like a
chamber under the sea.

It had been Monck's intention to have his drink and pass straight on to
his own quarters for a bath, but the letters on the table caught his eye
and he stopped. Standing in the green dimness with a tumbler in one
hand, he sorted them out. There were two for himself and two for Tommy,
the latter obviously bills, and under these one more, also for Tommy in
a woman's clear round writing. It came from Srinagar, and Monck stood
for a second or two holding it in his hand and staring straight out
before him with eyes that saw not. Just for those seconds a mocking
vision danced gnomelike through his brain. Just at this moment probably
most of the other men were opening letters from their wives in the
Hills. And he saw the chance he had not taken like a flash of far,
elusive sunlight on the sky-line of a troubled sea.

The vision passed. He laid down the letter and took up his own
correspondence. One of the letters was from England. He poured out his