The traditions of his house and of his regiment had Harry Luttrell in their keeping.

Messages?
Martin Hillyard might expect them, might indeed respond to and obey them, and with advantage, just because they came out of the blue.

But the men of tradition, no! The messenger had knocked upon the doors of their fathers' houses before ever they were born.
At the door of the Governor's house Harry Luttrell stopped.
"I expect you'll want to do some marketing, and I shall be busy, and to-night we shall have the others with us.

So I'll say now," and his face brightened with a smile, as though here at all events were a matter where the bitter laws of change could work no cruelties, "it has been really good to see you again." Certain excellent memories were busy with them both--Nuneham and Sanford Lasher and the Cherwell under its overhanging branches.

Then Luttrell looked out across to the Blue Nile and those old wondrous days faded from his vision.
"I should like you to get away bukra, bukra, Martin," he said.
"Half-past one at the latest, to-morrow morning.