He spoke as little as possible, because he was puzzled. He had
become conscious of a puzzled look in the Rangar's eyes--of a subtle
wonderment that might be intentional flattery (for Art and the East
are one). Whenever the East is doubtful, and recognizes doubt,
it is as dangerous as a hillside in the rains, and it only added
to his problem if the Rangar found in him something inexplicable. The
West can only get the better of the East when the East is too cock-sure.

"She has jolly well gone North!" said the Rangar suddenly, and King
shut his teeth with a snap. He sat bolt upright, and the Rangar
allowed himself to look amused.

"When? Why?"

"She was too jolly well excited to wait, sahib! She is of the North,
you know. She loves the North, and the men of the 'Hills'; and
she knows them because she loves them. There came a tar (telegram)
from Peshawur, from a general, to say King sahib comes to Delhi;
but already she had completed all arrangements here. She was in
a great stew, I can assure you. Finally she said, 'Why should I
wait?' Nobody could answer her."

He spoke English well enough. Few educated foreign gentlemen could
have spoken it better, although there was the tendency to use slang
that well-bred natives insist on picking up from British officers;
and as he went on, here and there the native idiom crept through,
translated. King said nothing, but listened and watched, puzzled
more than he would have cared to admit by the look in the Rangar's
eyes. It was not suspicion--nor respect. Yet there was a suggestion
of both.