“My dear, drink some water immediately, this curry is very hot—­deuced hot, in fact,” said Mr. Ghyrkins, in perfectly good faith.

John Westonhaugh, who was busy breaking up biscuits and green peppers and “Bombay ducks” into his curry, looked up slowly at his sister and smiled.

“Why, you are quite a griffin, Katharine,” said he, “how they will laugh at you in Bombay!” I was amused; of course the remarks of her uncle and brother did not make the blush subside—­on the contrary.  Kildare was drinking more claret, to conceal his annoyance.  Isaacs had a curious expression.  There was a short silence, and for one instant he turned his eyes to Miss Westonhaugh.  It was only a look, but it betrayed to me—­who knew what he felt—­infinite surprise, joy, and sympathy.  His quick understanding had comprehended that he had scored his first victory over his rival.

As her eyes met those of Isaacs, the colour left her cheeks as suddenly as it had come, leaving her face dead white.  She drank a little water, and presently seemed at ease again.  I was beginning to think she cared for him seriously.

“And pray, John,” she asked, “what may a griffin be?  It is not a very pretty name to call a young lady, is it?”

“Why, a griffin,” put in Mr. Ghyrkins, “is the ‘Mr. Verdant Green’ of the Civil Service.  A young civilian—­or anybody else—­who is just out from home is called a griffin.  John calls you a griffin because you don’t understand eating pepper.  You don’t find it as chilly as he does!  Ha! ha! ha!” and the old fellow laughed heartily, till he was red in the face, at his bleared old pun.  Of course every one was amused or professed to be, for it was a diversion welcomed by the three men of us who had seen the young girl’s embarrassment.

“A griffin,” said I, “is a thing of joy.  Mr. Westonhaugh was a griffin when he gave Mr. Isaacs that historical rupee.”  I cast my little bombshell into the conversation, and placidly went on manipulating my rice.

Isaacs was in too gay a humour to be offended, and he only said, turning to Miss Westonhaugh—­

“Mr. Griggs is a cynyic, you know.  You must not believe anything he says.”

“If doing kind things makes one a griffin, I hope I may be one always,” said Miss Westonhaugh quickly, “and I trust my brother is as much a griffin as ever.”

“I am, I assure you,” said he.  “But Mr. Griggs is quite right, and shows a profound knowledge of Indian life.  No one but a griffin of the greenest ever gave anybody a rupee in Bombay—­or ever will now, I should think.”

“Oh, John, are you going to be cynical too?”

“No, Katharine, I am not cynical at all.  I do not think you are quite sure what a ‘cynic’ is.”

“Oh yes, I know quite well.  Diogenes was a cynic, and Saint Jerome, and other people of that class.”

“A man who lives in a tub, and abuses Alexander the Great, and that sort of thing,” remarked Kildare, who had not spoken for some time.