He annoyed her.

Ranjoor Singh's answer was to seat himself, with a dignity the West
has yet to learn, on a long divan against the wall that gave him a
good view of the entrance and all the rest of the room, window
included. Instantly Yasmini flung herself on the other end of it, and
lay face downward, with her chin resting on both hands.

She studied his face intently for sixty seconds, and it very seldom
takes her that long to read a man's character, guess at his past, and
make arrangements for his future, if she thinks him worth her while.

"Why are you here?" she asked again at the end of her scrutiny.

Ranjoor Singh seemed not to hear her; he was watching other men who
entered, and listening to the sound of yet others on the stairs. No
other Sikh came in, nor more than one of any other caste or tribe;
yet he counted thirty men in half as many minutes.

"I think you are a buffalo!" she said at last; but if Ranjoor Singh
was interested in her thoughts he forgot to admit it.

A dozen more men entered, and the air, already heavy, grew thick
with tobacco smoke mingling with the smoke of sandal-wood that
floated back and forth in layers as the punkahs swung lazily.
Outside, the rain swished and chilled the night air; but the hot air
from inside hurried out to meet the cool, and none of the cool came
in. The noise of rain became depressing until Yasmini made a signal
to her maids and they started to make music.