We came back in the dark at seven o'clock, and saw that there were no lights in the bungalow. 'Careless ruffians my servants are!' said Strickland.
My horse reared at something on the carriage drive, and Fleete stood up under its nose.
'What are you doing, grovelling about the garden?' said Strickland.
But both horses bolted and nearly threw us. We dismounted by the stables and returned to Fleete, who was on his hands and knees under the orange-bushes.
'What the devil's wrong with you?' said Strickland.
'Nothing, nothing in the world,' said Fleete, speaking very quickly and thickly. 'I've been gardening—botanising, you know. The smell of the earth is delightful. I think I'm going for a walk—a long walk—all night.'
Then I saw that there was something excessively out of order somewhere, and I said to Strickland, 'I am not dining out.'
'Bless you!' said Strickland. 'Here, Fleete, get up. You'll catch fever there. Come in to dinner and let's have the lamps lit. We'll all dine at home.'
Fleete stood up unwillingly, and said, 'No lamps—no lamps. It's much nicer here. Let's dine outside and have some more chops—lots of 'em and underdone—bloody ones with gristle.'
Now a December evening in Northern India is bitterly cold, and Fleete's suggestion was that of a maniac.
'Come in,' said Strickland sternly. 'Come in at once.'
Fleete came, and when the lamps were brought, we saw that he was literally plastered with dirt from head to foot. He must have been rolling in the garden. He shrank from the light and went to his room. His eyes
