"Morning, ma'am,--morning! Don't let me intrude. I'd a little accident,
and took a liberty. My horse cut his fetlock--nothing serious--and I set
your two saises (grooms) to work on it with a sponge and water.
Twenty minutes--will see it right as a trivet. Then I'm off again--I've a
job of work."

He stood with back to the sun and hands on his hips, looking up at Tess--
a man of fifty--a soldier of another generation, in a white uniform something
like a British sergeant-major's of the days before the Mutiny. His
mutton-chop whiskers, dyed dark-brown, were military mid-Victorian,
as were the huge brass spurs that jingled on black riding-boots. A
great-chested, heavy-weight athletic man, a few years past his prime.

"Come up, Tom. You're always welcome."

"Ah!" His spurs rang on the stone steps, and, since Tess was standing
close to the veranda rail, he turned to face her at the top. Saluting with
martinet precision before removing his helmet, he did not get a clear
view of the Rajputni. "As I've said many times, ma'am, the one house
in the world where Tom Tripe may sit down with princes and commissioners."

"Have you had breakfast?"

He made a wry face.

"The old story, Tom?"

"The old story, ma'am. A hair of the dog that bit me is all the breakfast
I could swallow."