"How are ye? Ah--yes, Mr. Isaacs, Mr. Griggs of Allahabad. Jolly day,
isn't it?" and he looked vaguely at the grass. "Really, Miss
Westonhaugh, I got in such a rage with my rascal of a saice that I did
not remember I was so near the house. I am really very sorry I talked
like that. I hope you did not think I was murdering him?"
Isaacs looked annoyed.
"Yes," said he, "we thought Mahmoud was going to have a bad time of it.
I believe Miss Westonhaugh does not understand Hindustani."
A look of genuine distress came into the Englishman's face.
"Really," said he, very simply. "You don't know how sorry I am that any
one should have heard me. I am so hasty. But let me apologise to you all
most sincerely for disturbing you with my brutal temper."
His misdeed had not been, a very serious crime after all, and there was
something so frank and honest about his awkward little apology that I
was charmed. The man was a gentleman. Isaacs bowed in silence, and Miss
Westonhaugh had evidently never thought much about it.
"We were talking about polo when you came, Lord Steepleton; Mr. Isaacs
and Mr. Griggs are going to play a match, and I am to hold the stakes.
Do you not want to make one in the game?"
"May I?" said the young man, grateful to her for having helped him out.
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