“Yes, yes,” he would say with astonishment, “I was sure of these things; I knew them as familiar truths,” even as a man gradually going blind might one day see clearly and become aware of his narrowing vision.  Or perhaps it would be some sudden unsuspected revulsion of feeling in his heart.  Such a revulsion had come to him this afternoon as he had gazed up to the Viceroy’s box.  A wild and unreasoning wrath had flashed up within him, not against the system, but against that tall stooping man, worn with work, who was at once its representative and its flower.  Up there the great man stood—­so his thoughts ran—­complacent, self-satisfied, careless of the harm which his system wrought.  Down here upon the grass walked a man warped and perverted out of his natural course.  He had been sent to Eton and to Oxford, and had been filled with longings and desires which could have no fruition; he had been trained to delicate thoughts and habits which must daily be offended and daily be a cause of offence to his countrymen.  But what did the tall stooping man care?  Shere Ali now knew that the English had something in the way of an army.  What did it matter whether he lived in unhappiness so long as that knowledge was the price of his unhappiness?  A cruel, careless, warping business, this English rule.

Thus Shere Ali felt rather than thought, and realised the while the danger of his bitter heart.  Once more he appealed to Colonel Dewes, standing before him with burning eyes.

“Bring Linforth out to India!  If you have any influence, use it; if you have none, obtain it.  Only bring Linforth out to India, and bring him very quickly!”

Once before a passionate appeal had been made to Colonel Dewes by a man in straits, and Colonel Dewes had not understood and had not obeyed.  Now, a quarter of a century later another appeal was made by a man sinking, as surely as Luffe had been sinking before, and once again Dewes did not understand.

He took Shere Ali by the arm, and said in a kindly voice: 

“I tell you what it is, my lad.  You have been going the pace a bit, eh?  Calcutta’s no good.  You’ll only collect debts and a lot of things you are better without.  Better get out of it.”

Shere Ali’s face closed as his lips had done.  All expression died from it in a moment.  There was no help for him in Colonel Dewes.  He said good-bye with a smile, and walked out past the stand.  His syce was waiting for him outside the railings.

Shere Ali had come to the races wearing a sun-helmet, and, as the fashion is amongst the Europeans in Calcutta, his syce carried a silk hat for Shere Ali to take in exchange for his helmet when the sun went down.  Shere Ali, like most of the Europeanised Indians, was more scrupulous than any Englishman in adhering to the European custom.  But to-day, with an angry gesture, he repelled his syce.

“I am going,” he said.  “You can take that thing away.”