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 rains had passed, and where the crop grew to its finest and its best, that the harvesting was still in progress. We arrived safely at the house at last, the pony swinging in at the gate in one last spurt of playful recklessness. It was a long low bungalow, with a splendid veranda running its full length, filled with a magnificent collection of palms and ferns, and an assortment of long wicker chairs and a couple of hammocks that promised everything possible in the way of ease and comfort. Two more gorgeous chaprassis in red and gold added the necessary touch of colour as they hurried out to meet us, salaaming respectfully. In front there was a charming garden ablaze with English flowers, the lawns green and smooth and well-kept, reminding one of home more than anything I had yet seen in Slumpanugger. Berengaria's husband came out to welcome us. Now, although he is my cousin by marriage, I can't say that he is the kind of man one takes to straight away. My first thought as he helped me out of the tum-tum was, 'Why on earth did Berengaria marry him?' My second thought, as we shook hand, was, 'Having married him, why on earth doesn't she brush him up a bit, and make the best of him?' He had that sort of look as if he had slept all night in his clothes, and the hopeless kind of hair that always will persist in sticking up in the wrong places and never looks well brushed. He was short and dark and sallow, and he wore glasses, and a tennis shirt that had lost all sense