“Why?” she asked. “He made a demonstration during the Durbar in Bombay.”
“It is you I want to talk about,” Ted said. “Not the Prince, and not Darya, and certainly not Gandhi or politics, not even India. Only you—”
He took her narrow white hand as it lay on her knee, and he held it only long enough to discern response. There was none and he put it down again.
She got up almost at once. “Let’s go out to the courts. After all, they are shaded, and the darkness falls so quickly after the sun sets. My father will soon be home.”
She gave him a quick glance, her eyes upon his shoes.
“I am quite ready,” he said, smilingly submitting himself to her survey. “White linen suit, white shoes.”
“Very handsome,” she retorted, thawing nicely into an answering smile.
They sauntered across the green lawns and approached the courts. There were already people playing, ladies sat under the green striped umbrellas and liveried Indian servants were offering tea, sandwiches and cold drinks. Agnes introduced him casually as they came near.
“Lady Fenley, this is Ted MacArd, from Poona. Sir Angus, Ted MacArd, and Lady Mary Fenley, Ted MacArd. Frederick Payne, Mr. MacArd, and Bart Lankester, and Mr. and Mrs. Oscar Wayne—”
He shook hands, smiled, repeated names, and she disposed of them all by offering to play him at singles immediately upon a still vacant court. He tested some racquets, chose one rather heavy, they tossed for the serve and she won.
He suspected that she played well, but he did not imagine her superlative, as indeed she was. She seemed scarcely to move about the court, and yet his balls were returned with swift accuracy and in the least convenient spots. She used no tricks, no cuts or pretenses, a straight game, but devastating and hard. He was put to it to match her, and he lost the first three games with scarcely a point. Then he rallied himself, forgot who she was and that he was very nearly if not altogether in love with her, and concentrating upon her as an adversary, he won two sets out of three by a bare margin. Defeated, she came to the net and they shook hands formally. Her fair skin was rose red and the straight short strands of hair about her forehead were wet.
“You play too well,” he said.
“Impossible,” she said, “since you beat me.”
“I had to work hard,” he retorted.
“Why not?” she asked.
They sauntered side by side to the umbrellas again, and she took hot tea. “Don’t drink that cold stuff,” she suggested, disapproving when he chose lemonade. “It’s dangerous when you’re hot.”
“Not for an American,” he replied, determined for a reason he could not understand not to yield to her. “We’re used to cold and hot together.”
“There’s my father,” she said, nodding toward the green.
He saw the tall Englishman walking slowly across the lawns toward them.
“He looks tired,” she said. “Things are so difficult again, since the Durbar.”
Everyone rose as the Governor approached and she introduced Ted formally. “Father, this is Mr. MacArd. I told you we were shipmates. He is from America, you remember.”
“Ah, yes.”
The Governor shook hands with him limply. “I think I’ve met your father. Of course I know of your grandfather.”
“Thank you, Your Excellency,” Ted said clearly.
He sat down again when the Governor was seated, he chatted with Lady Fenley, he glanced at Agnes once or twice, rather restlessly, until he perceived that this was to be his visit. There was not to be a stroll alone under the great banyan tree at the far end of the lawns, nor did she seize the opportunity he made by suggesting that they look at the rose gardens. In sudden anger he got up after a half hour or so.
“I must he leaving now,” he said, refraining from her name.
“Must you?” she murmured.
“I shan’t leave Calcutta until the day after tomorrow,” he went on. Actually he had no plans whatever, but he said not tomorrow, because it gave him a day longer. Yet he warned her that it might be only a day. A day would be enough to see whether she wanted to see him again. She did not speak. She gave him her hand, he pressed it and released it, he bowed to the assembly under the green striped umbrellas and went away. The sun was setting ferociously over the great temple of Kali as he got into his carriage and they went down the road toward the city and then along the Chowringhi, that most famous street of the East, and so to his hotel. He was still angry and his lips were tense and white.
Sleep was impossible. It was the inner heat that kept him awake, not the thick black heat of the outer night. He tossed and turned and sat up and threw the pillows on the floor. Then he got up and lit the table lamp and drew out sheets of the hotel paper, slightly mildewed at the edges already, though it was fresh yesterday, he supposed, and he began to write down all the angry thoughts he had been speaking to her in the darkness while he could not sleep.
“Why did you let me come to see you?” he demanded. “Why not simply tell me that we were friends on the ship and no more? Why accept my letters? Why let me all but tell you that I love you and want to marry you? Very well, I tell you now. I do love you, and I want you for my wife. There are distances between us, all India, perhaps, but I love you. If you can love me, there will be nothing to separate us, not India and not the seas between your country and mine. You will tell me I am impatient, you were always saying on the ship that I was impatient. Yes, I am — I am like my grandfather and he is the most impatient man I have ever seen, and my father is the most stubborn man I have ever seen, and I am both of those. So I shall come to you tomorrow afternoon at four o’clock for your answer. Nothing shall prevent me from coming.”
The first signs of the thunderous dawn were streaking the sky with crimson when he had emptied himself of words and of anger, and he sealed the letter. Then he went to the door where his bearer slept on the threshold outside. He touched him with his foot and the man leaped awake.
“Take this to Government House,” Ted ordered. “Stay there with it until a reply is put into your hand, then bring it to me at once. I shall be here in this room.”
The bearer got up in silence. He wrapped himself twice in the length of cotton which was his garment. He straightened his turban and taking the letter he went away.
Upon the silver tray, with the tea and toast and the ripe yellow mangoes, Agnes saw the letter and recognized it, but she did not take it at once. She sat up in bed and the ayah piled the pillows behind her and handed her the brush and comb. She brushed out the long fair braid and twisted it around her head. Then she dipped her hands into the bowl of cool water the ayah brought to the bedside, she took up the linen towel that lay in the water and squeezing it half dry she wiped her face and neck.
“Now,” she said, “I will have my chota hari.”
“The man waits for an answer, my rose, my darling,” the old ayah said in a tender, singing voice.
“I will read the letter when I have had my tea,” she said. “Then I will ring the bell for you to return.”
“I will return instantly,” the ayah said.
She went out silently and Agnes put down the cup and took up the letter. She expected it. It was not likely that Ted would simply go away nor really did she wish him to do that. Her father and mother had asked many questions about the American, they were reluctant, as she had seen, that she should let him come, and yet they loved her sincerely and knew that she must be allowed to do what she wished to do.