In the evenings it was the wont of all Kashima to meet at the
platform on the Narkarra Road, to drink tea and discuss the
trivialities of the day. Major Vansuythen and his wife found
themselves alone at the gathering-place for almost the first time in
their remembrance; and the cheery Major, in the teeth of his wife's
remarkably reasonable suggestion that the rest of the Station might
be sick, insisted upon driving round to the two bungalows and
unearthing the population.

'Sitting in the twilight!' said he, with great indignation, to the
Boultes. 'That'll never do! Hang it all, we're one family here! You
must come out, and so must Kurrell. I'll make him bring his banjo.'

So great is the power of honest simplicity and a good digestion
over guilty consciences that all Kashima did turn out, even down
to the banjo; and the Major embraced the company in one
expansive grin. As he grinned, Mrs. Vansuythen raised her eyes for
an instant and looked at all Kashima. Her meaning was clear.
Major Vansuythen would never know anything. He was to be the
outsider in that happy family whose cage was the Dosehri hills.

'You're singing villainously out of tune, Kurrell,' said the Major
truthfully. 'Pass me that banjo.'

And he sang in excruciating-wise till the stars came out and all
Kashima went to dinner.

That was the beginning of the New Life of Kashima the life that
Mrs. Boulte made when her tongue was loosened in the twilight.