the Empire in more senses than one, and Kurrumpore, the military centre,
had not been chosen for any especial advantages of climate. So few
indeed did it possess in the eyes of Europeans that none ever went there
save those whom an inexorable fate compelled. The rickety, wooden
bungalows scattered about the cantonment were temporary lodgings, not
abiding-places. The women of the community, like migratory birds, dwelt
in them for barely four months in the year, flitting with the coming of
the pitiless heat to Bhulwana, their little paradise in the Hills. But
that was a twenty-four hours' journey away, and the men had to be
content with an occasional week's leave from the depths of their
inferno, unless, as Tommy Denvers put it, they were lucky enough to go
sick, in which case their sojourn in paradise was prolonged, much to the
delight of the angels.

But on that hot night the annual flitting of the angels had not yet come
to pass, and notwithstanding the heat the last dance of the season was
to take place at the Club House. The occasion was an exceptional one, as
the jovial sounds that issued from the officers' mess-house testified.
Round after round of cheers followed the noisy toast, filling the night
with the merry uproar that echoed far and wide. A confusion of voices
succeeded these; and then by degrees the babel died down, and a single
voice made itself heard. It spoke with easy fluency to the evident
appreciation of its listeners, and when it ceased there came another
hearty cheer. Then with jokes and careless laughter the little company
of British officers began to disperse. They came forth in lounging
groups on to the steps of the mess-house, the foremost of them--Tommy
Denvers--holding the arm of his captain, who suffered the familiarity as
he suffered most things, with the utmost indifference. None but Tommy
ever attempted to get on familiar terms with Everard Monck. He was
essentially a man who stood alone. But the slim, fair-haired young