Sher Singh did not say a word. He was angry with his father for having sent him and angry with himself for having come. He felt angrier with his wife—he always felt angry with her when he could not find reasons for his temper—for not having stopped him from coming. And of course he felt angry with Taylor for having suggested his calling on a Tuesday and belittling him by keeping him waiting with the crowd of sycophants. ‘Never again,’ he kept saying to himself. This time he would go through the ordeal even if it meant sitting out till the last snivelling, fawning caller had had his say, but never again.

Sher Singh was still immersed in his angry thoughts when the orderly came to say that the Sahib would receive him. Him, Sher Singh, before any of the crowd of corrupt businessmen wanting to be made honorary magistrates; before the boot-licking peasant informers begging for the privilege of being seated beside the Deputy Commissioner at formal functions! It could be because he was Buta Singh’s son; it could be because he was the leader of the students. In either case it was something which raised him above the sort of people who called on Taylor. Sher Singh’s temper cooled a little.

The orderly conducted him through the verandah, lifted the chick, and peered in. Taylor was dictating to his stenographer. The orderly asked him to wait till the Sahib had finished.

Taylor finished dictating. The stenographer read out what he had taken down and left. Taylor picked up the first visiting card on his table, turned it about, and put it down. He lit his pipe, and after looking vacantly into space for some time, tapped the bell on his table. The orderly raised the chick and hustled Sher Singh into the room.

‘Good morning, sir!’ said Sher Singh a little nervously. Taylor picked up the visiting card again and scrutinized it carefully. He did not hear the greeting.

‘Good morning, sir,’ repeated Sher Singh a little louder.

‘Hm?’

‘Good morning, sir,’ said Sher Singh a third time.

Taylor looked up and smiled. ‘Oh, good morning, Sher Singh, good morning. Didn’t notice you come in. Do sit down,’ he said, pointing to a chair.

‘Good morning, sir,’ stammered Sher Singh for the fourth time. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Well, how are you? And how is your good father? I haven’t seen him for some days.’

‘Very good, sir. Very good, sir. Thank you.’

‘I am glad. And how are your politics? You are a leader of the students, aren’t you? Your father told me you had become President of the Students’ Union. He is very proud of you.’