CHAPTER XVI.

"So let him journey through his earthly day:

'Mid hustling spirits go his self-found way;

Find torture, bliss, in every forward stride--

He, every moment, still unsatisfied."

--FAUST.

Next morning, very early, he was closeted with Roy, sitting on the edge

of his bed; cautiously, circumstantially, telling him all. Roy, as he

listened, was half repelled, half impressed by the sheer impetus of the

thing; and again he felt--as once or twice in Delhi--what centuries

apart they were, though related, and almost of an age.

"This will be only between you and me, Roy--for always," Dyán concluded

gravely. "Not because I have any shame for killing that snake; but--as I

said ... because of Arúna----"

"Trust me," said Roy. "Amber Lake and I don't blab. There'll be a nine

days' mystery over his disappearance. Then his lot will set up some

other tin god--and promptly forget all about him."

"Let us follow their example, in that at least!" Grim humour nickered in

Dyán's eyes, as he extracted a cigarette from the proffered case. "You

gave me my chance. I have taken it--like a Rajput. Now we have other

things to do."

Roy smiled. "That's about the size of it--from your sane, barbaric

standpoint! I'm fairly besieged with other things to do. As soon as this

blooming ankle allows me to hobble, I'm keen to get at some of the

thoughtful elements in Calcutta and Bombay; educated Indian men and

women, who honestly believe that India is moving towards a national

unity that will transcend all antagonism of race and creed. I can't see

it myself; but I've an open mind. Then, I think, Udaipur--'last,

loneliest, loveliest, apart'--to knock my novel into shape before I go

North. And _you_----?" He pensively took stock of his volcanic cousin.

"Sure you're safe not to erupt again?"

"Safe as houses--thanks to you. That doesn't mean I can be orthodox

Hindu and work for the orthodox Jaipur Raj. I would like to join

'Servants of India' Society; and work for the Mother among those who

accept British connection as India's God-given destiny. In no other way

will I work again--to 'make her a widow.' Also, I thought perhaps----"

he hesitated, averting his eyes--"to take vows of celibacy----"

"_Dyán_!" Roy could not repress his astonishment. He had almost

forgotten that side of things. Right or wrong--a tribute to Tara indeed!

It jerked him uncomfortably; almost annoyed him.

"Unfair on Grandfather," he said with decision. "For every reason, you

ought to marry--an enlightened wife. Think--of Arúna."

"I _do_ think of her. It is _she_ who ought to marry."

The emphasis was not lost on Roy:--and it hurt. Last night's poignant

scene was intimately with him still. "I'm afraid you won't persuade her

to," he said in a contained voice.

"I am quite aware of _that_. And the reason--even a blind man could not

fail to see."

They looked straight at one another for a long moment. Roy did not

swerve from the implied accusation.

"Well, it's no fault of mine, Dyán," he said, recalling Arúna's

confession that tacitly freed him from blame. "_She_

understands--there's a bigger thing between us than our mere selves.

Whatever I'm free to do for her, I'll gladly do--always. It was chiefly

to ease her poor heart that I risked the Delhi adventure. I felt I had

lost the link with _you_."

"Not surprising." Dyán smoked for a few minutes in silence. He was

clearly moved by the fine frankness of Roy's attitude. "All the same,"

he said at last, "it was not quite broken. You have given me new life;

and because you did it--for her, I swear to you, as long as she needs

me, I will not fail her." He held out his hand. Roy's closed on it

hard.

"Later in the morning I will come back and see her," Dyán added, in a

changed voice--and went out.

* * * * *

Later in the morning, Roy himself was allowed to see her. With the help

of his stick he limped to her verandah balcony, where she lay in a long

chair, with cushions and rugs, the poor arm in a sling. Thea was with

her. She had heard as much of last night's doings as any one would ever

know. So she felt justified in letting the poor dears have half an hour

together.

Her withdrawal was tactfully achieved; but there followed an awkward

silence. For the space of several minutes it seemed that neither of the

'poor dears' knew quite what to make of their privilege, though they

were appreciating it from their hearts.

Roy found himself too persistently aware of the arm that had been broken

to save him; of the new bond between them, signed and sealed by that one

unforgettable kiss.

As for Arúna--while pain anchored her body to earth, her unstable heart

swayed disconcertingly from heights of rarefied content, to depths of

shyness. Things she had said and done, on that far-away hillside, seemed

unbelievable, remembered in her familiar balcony with a daylight mind:

and fear lest he might be 'thinking it that way too' increased shyness

tenfold. Yet it was she who spoke first, after all.

"Oh, it makes me angry ... to see you--like that," she said, indicating

his ankle with a faint movement of her hand.

Roy quietly took possession of the hand and pressed it to his lips.

"How do you suppose _I_ feel, seeing _you_ like that!" Words and act

dispelled her foolish fears. "Did you sleep? Does it hurt much?"

"Only if I forget and try to move. But what matter? Every time it hurts,

I feel proud because that feeble arm was able to push you out of the

way."

"You've every right to feel proud. You nearly knocked me over!"

A mischievous smile crept into her eyes. "I am afraid ... I was very

rude!"

"That's _one_ way of putting it!" His grave tenderness warmed her like

sunshine. He leaned nearer; his hand grasped the arm of her long chair.

"You were a very wonderful Arúna last night. And--you are going to be

more wonderful still. Working with Dyán, you are going to help make my

dream come true--of India finding herself again by her own genius, along

her own lines----"

He had struck the right note. Her face lit up as he had hoped to see it.

"Oh, Roy--can I really----? Will Dyán help? Will he _let_ me----"

"Of course he will. And I'll be helping too--in my own fashion. We'll

never lose touch, Arúna; though India's your destiny and England's mine.

Never say again you have no true country. Like me, you have two

countries--one very dear; one supreme. I'm afraid there are terrible

days coming out here. And in those days every one of you who honestly

loves England--every one of _us_ who honestly loves India--will count in

the scale ..."

He paused; and she drew a deep breath. "Oh--how you _see_ things! It is

you who are wonderful, Roy. I can think and feel the big things in my

heart. But for doing them--I am, after all, only a woman...."

"An _Indian_ woman," he emphasised, his eyes on hers. "I know--and you

know--what that means. You have not yet bartered away your magical

influence for a mess of pottage. Because of one Indian woman--supreme

for me; and now ... because of another, they all have a special claim on

my heart. If India has not gone too far down the wrong road, it is by

the _true_ Swadeshi spirit of her women she may yet be saved. _They_, at

any rate, don't reckon progress by counting factory chimneys or seats on

councils. And every seed--good or bad--is sown first in the home. Get at

the women, Arúna--the home ones--and tell them that. It's not only _my_

dream; it was--my mother's. You don't know how she loved and believed in

you all. I think she never _quite_ understood the other kind. The longer

she lived among them, the more she craved for all of you to remain true

women--in the full sense, not the narrow one----"

He had never yet spoken so frankly and freely of that dear lost mother;

and Arúna knew it for the highest compliment he could pay her. Truly his

generous heart was giving her all that his jealous household gods would

permit....

Thea--stepping softly through the inner room--caught a sentence or two;

caught a glimpse of Roy's finely-cut profile; of Arúna's eyes intent on

his face; and she smiled very tenderly to herself. It was so exactly

like Roy; and such constancy of devotion went straight to her

mother-heart. So too--with a sharper pang--did the love hunger in

Arúna's eyes.

The puzzle of these increasing race complications----! The tragedy and

the pity of it...!

* * * * *

Lance travelled North that night with a mind at ease. Roy had assured

him that the moment his ankle permitted he would leave Jaipur and 'give

the bee in his bonnet an airing' elsewhere. That assurance proved easier

to give than to act upon, when the moment came. The Jaipur Residency had

come to seem almost like home. And the magnet of home drew all that was

Eastern in Roy. It was the British blood in his veins that drove him

afield. Though India was his objective, England was the impelling force.

His true home seemed hundreds of miles away, in more senses than one.

His union with Rajputana--set with the seal of that sacred and beautiful

experience at Chitor--seemed, in his present mood, the more vital of the

two.

And there was Lance up in the Punjab--a magnet as strong as any, when

the masculine element prevailed. Yet again, some inner irresistible

impulse obliged him to break away from them all. It was one of those

inevitable moments when the dual forces within pulled two ways; when he

felt envious exceedingly of Lance Desmond's sane and single-minded

attitude towards men and things. One couldn't picture Lance a prey to

the ignominious sensation that half of him wanted to go one way and half

of him another way. At this juncture, half of himself felt a confounded

fool for not going back to the Punjab and enjoying a friendly sociable

cold weather among his father's people. The other half felt impelled to

probe deeper into the complexities of changing India, to confirm and

impart his belief that the destinies of England and India were one and

indivisible. After all, India stood where she did to-day by virtue of

what England had made her. He refused to believe that even the insidious

disintegrating process of democracy could dissolve--in a brief fever of

unrest--links forged and welded in the course of a hundred years.

In that case, argued his practical half, why this absurd inner sense of

responsibility for great issues over which he could have no shadow of

control? What was the earthly use of it--this large window in his soul,

opening on to the world's complexities and conflicts; not allowing him

to say comfortably, 'They are not.' His opal-tinted dreams of

interpreting East to West had suffered a change of complexion since

Oxford days. His large vague aspirations of service had narrowed down,

inevitably, to a few definite personal issues. Action involves

limitation--as the picture involves the frame. Dreams must descend to

earth--or remain unfruitful. It might be a little, or a great matter,

that he had managed to set two human fragments of changing India on the

right path--so far as he could discern it. The fruits of that modest

beginning only the years could reveal....

Then there was this precious novel simmering at the back of things; his

increasing desire to get away alone with the ghostly company that

haunted his brain. As the mother-to-be feels the new life mysteriously

moving within her, so he began to feel within him the first stirrings of

his own creative power. Already his poems and essays had raised

expectations and secured attention for other things he wanted to say.

And there seemed no end to them. He had hardly yet begun his mental

adventures. Pressing forward, through sense, to the limitless regions of

mind and spirit, new vistas would open, new paths lure him on....

That first bewildering, intoxicating sense of power is good--while it

lasts; none the less, because, in the nature of things, it is foredoomed

to disillusion--greater or less, according to the authenticity of the

god within.

Whatever the outcome for Roy, that passing exaltation eased appreciably

the pang of parting from them all. And it was responsible for a happy

inspiration. Rummaging among his papers, on the eve of departure, he

came upon the sketch of India that he had written in Delhi and refrained

from sending to Arúna. Intrinsically it was hers; inspired by her.

Also--intrinsically it was good: and straightway he decided she should

have it for a parting gift.

Beautifully copied out, and tied up with carnation-pink ribbons, he

reserved it for their last few moments together. She was still such a

child in some ways. The small surprise of his gift might ease the pang

of parting. It was a woman's thought. But the woman-strain of tenderness

was strong in Roy, as in all true artists.

She was standing near the fire in her own sitting-room, wearing the pink

dress and sari, her arm still in a sling. Last words, those desperate

inanities--buffers between the heart and its own emotion--are difficult

things to bring off in any case; peculiarly difficult for these two,

with that unreal, yet intensely actual, bond between them; and Roy felt

more than grateful to the inspiration that gave him something definite

to say.

Instantly her eyes were on it--wondering ... guessing....

"It's a little thing I wrote in Delhi," he said simply. "I couldn't send

it to Jeffers. It seemed--to belong to you. So I thought----" He

proffered it, feeling absurdly shy of it--and of her.

"Oh--but it is too much!" Holding it with her sling hand, she opened it

with the other and devoured it eagerly under his watching eyes. By the

changes that flitted across her face, by the tremor of her lips and her

hands, as she pressed it to her heart, he knew he could have given her

no dearer treasure than that fragment of himself. And because he knew

it, he felt tongue-tied; tempted beyond measure to kiss her once again.

If she divined his thought, she kept her lashes lowered and gave no

sign.

He hoped she knew....

But before either could break the spell of silence that held them, Thea

returned; and their moment--their idyll--was over....

END OF PHASE III.

PHASE IV.

DUST OF THE ACTUAL

CHAPTER I.

"It's no use trying to keep out of things. The moment they want to

put you in--you're in. The moment you're born, you're done

for."--HUGH WALPOLE.

The middle of March found Roy back in the Punjab, sharing a ramshackle

bungalow with Lance and two of his brother officers; good fellows, both,

in their diametrically opposite fashions; but superfluous--from Roy's

point of view. When he wanted a quiet 'confab' with Lance, one or both

were sure to come strolling in and hang round, jerking out aimless

remarks. When he wanted a still quieter 'confab' with his maturing

novel, their voices and footsteps echoed too clearly in the verandahs

and the scantily furnished rooms. But did he venture to grumble at these

minor drawbacks, Lance would declare he was demoralised by floating

loose in an Earthly Paradise and becoming a mere appendage to a pencil.

There was a measure of truth in the last. As a matter of fact, after two

months of uninterrupted work at Udaipur, Roy had unwarily hinted at a

risk of becoming embedded in his too congenial surroundings;--and that

careless admission had sealed his fate.

Lance Desmond, with his pointed phrase, had virtually dug him out of his

chosen retreat; had written temptingly of the 'last of the polo,' of

prime pig-sticking at Kapurthala, of the big Gymkhana that was to wind

up the season:--a rare chance for Roy to exhibit his horsemanship. And

again, in more serious mood, he had written of increasing anxiety over

his Sikhs with that 'infernal agitation business' on the increase, and

an unbridled native press shouting sedition from the house-tops. A nice

state of chaos India was coming to! He hoped to goodness they wouldn't

be swindled out of their leave; but Roy had better 'roll up' soon, so

as to be on the spot, in case of ructions; not packed away in

cotton-wool down there.

A few letters in this vein had effectually rent the veil of illusion

that shielded Roy from aggressive actualities. In Udaipur there had been

no hysterical press; no sedition flaunting on the house-tops. One hadn't

arrived at the twentieth century, even. Except for a flourishing

hospital, a few hideous modern interiors, and a Resident--who was very

good friends with Vinx--one stepped straight back into the leisurely,

colourful, frankly brutal life of the middle ages. And Roy had fallen a

willing victim to the charms of Udaipur:--her white palaces, white

temples, and white landing-stages, flanked with marble elephants,

embosomed in wooded hills, and reflected in the blue untroubled depths

of the Pichóla Lake. Immersed in his novel, he had not known a dull or

lonely hour in that enchanted backwater of Rajasthán.

His large vague plans for getting in touch with the thoughtful elements

of Calcutta and Bombay had yielded to the stronger magnetism of beauty

and art. Like his father, he hated politics; and Westernised India is

nothing if not political. It was a true instinct that warned him to keep

clear of that muddy stream, and render his mite of service to India in

the exercise of his individual gift. That would be in accord with one of

his mother's wise and tender sayings: (his memory was jewelled with

them) "Look always first at your own gifts. They are sign-posts,

pointing the road to your true line of service." Could he but

immortalise the measure of her spirit that was in him, that were true

service to India--and more than India. There are men created for action.

There are men created to inspire action. And the world has equal need of

both.

He had things to say on paper that would take him all his time; and

Udaipur had metaphorically opened her arms to him. The Resident and his

wife had been more than kind. He had his books; his cool, lofty rooms in

the Guest House; his own private boat on the Lake; and freedom to go his

own unfettered way at all hours of the day or night. There the simmering

novel had begun to move with a life of its own; and while that state of

being endured, nothing else mattered much in earth or heaven.

For seven weeks he had worked at it without interruption; and for seven

weeks he had been happy: companioned by the vivid creatures of his

brain; and, better still, by a quickened undersense of his mother's

vital share in the 'blossom and fruit of his life.' The danger of

becoming embedded had been no myth: and at the back of his brain there

had lurked a superstitious reluctance to break the spell.

But Lance was Lance: no one like him. Moreover, he had known well enough

that anticipation of breakers ahead was no fanciful nightmare; but a

sane corrective to the ostrich policy of those who had sown the evil

seed and were trying to say of the fruit--'It is not.' Letters from

Dyán, and spasmodic devouring of newspapers, kept him alive to the

sinister activities of the larger world outside. News from Bombay grew

steadily more disquieting:--strikes and riots, fomented by agitators,

who lied shamelessly about the nature of the new Bills--; hostile crowds

and insults to Englishwomen. Dyán more than hinted that if the

threatened outbreak were not resolutely crushed at the start, it might

prove a far-reaching affair; and Roy had not the slightest desire to

find himself 'packed away in cotton-wool,' miles from the scene of

action. Clearly Lance wanted him. He might be useful on the spot. And

that settled the matter.

Impossible to leave so much loveliness, such large drafts of peace and

leisure, without a pang; but--the wrench over--he was well content to

find himself established in this ramshackle bachelor bungalow, back

again with Lance and his music--very much in evidence just now--and the

two superfluous good fellows, whom he liked well enough in homoeopathic

doses. Especially he liked Jack Meredith, cousin of the Desmonds;--a

large and simple soul, gravely absorbed in pursuing balls and tent-pegs

and 'pig'; impervious to feminine lures; equally impervious to the

caustic wit of his diametrical opposite, Captain James Barnard, who

eased his private envy by christening him 'Don Juan.' For Meredith

fatally attracted women; and Barnard--cultured, cynical, Cambridge--was

as fatally susceptible to them as a trout to a May-fly; but, for some

unfathomable reason they would not; and in Anglo-India a man could not

hide his failures under a bushel. Lance classified him comprehensively

as 'one of the War lot'; liked him, and was sorry for him,

although--perhaps because--he was 'no soldier.'

Roy also liked him; and enjoyed verbal fencing-bouts with him when the

mood was on. Still he would have preferred, beyond measure, the Kohat

arrangement, with the Colonel for an unobtrusive third.

But the Colonel, these days, had a bungalow to himself; a bungalow in

process of being furnished by no means on bachelor lines. For the

unbelievable had come to pass----! And the whole affair had been carried

through in his own inimitable fashion, without so much as a tell-tale

ripple on the surface of things. Quite unobtrusively, at Kohat, he had

made friends with the General's daughter--a dark-haired slip of a girl,

with the blood of distinguished Frontier soldiers in her veins. Quite

unobtrusively--during Christmas week--he had laid his heart and the

Regiment at her feet. Quite unobtrusively, he proposed to marry her in

April, when the leave season opened, and carry her off to Kashmir.

"_That's_ the way it goes with _some_ people," said Lance, the first

time he spoke of it; and Roy fancied he detected a wistful note in his

voice.

"That's the way it'll go with you, old man," he had retorted. "I'm the

one that will have to look out for squalls!"

Lance had merely smiled and said nothing:--the reception he usually

accorded to personal remarks. And, at the moment, Roy thought no more of

the matter.

Their first good week of polo and riding and generally fooling round

together had quickened his old allegiance to Lance, his newer allegiance

to the brotherhood of action. He possessed no more enviable talent than

his many-sided zest for life.

Lance himself seemed in an unusually social mood. So of course Roy must

submit to being bowled round in the new dog-cart and introduced to

special friends, in cantonments and Lahore, including the Deputy

Commissioner's wife and good-looking eldest daughter; the best dancer in

the station and an extra special friend, he gathered from Lance's best

offhand manner.

Roy found her more than good-looking; beautiful, almost, with her

twofold grace of carriage and feature and her low-toned harmony of

colouring:--ivory-white skin, ash-blond hair and hazel eyes, clear as a

Highland river; the pupils abnormally large, the short thick lashes very

black, like a smudge round her lids. She was tall, in fine, and carried

her beauty like a brimming chalice; very completely mistress of herself;

and very completely detached from her florid, effusive, worldly-wise

mother. Unquestionably, a young woman to be reckoned with.

But Roy did not feel disposed, just then, to reckon seriously with any

young woman, however alluring. The memory of Arúna--the exquisite

remoteness from everyday life of their whole relation--did not easily

fade. And the creatures of his brain were still clamant, in spite of

broken threads and drastic change of surroundings. Lance had presented

him with a spacious writing-table; and most days he would stick to it

for hours, sooner than drive out in pursuit of tennis or afternoon

dancing in Lahore.

He was sitting at it now; flinging down a dramatic episode, roughly,

rapidly, as it came. The polished surface was strewn with an untidy

array of papers; the only ornaments a bit of old brass-work and two

ivory elephants; a photograph of his father and a large one of his

mother taken from the portrait at Jaipur. The table was set almost at

right angles to his open door, and the chick rolled up. He had a

weakness for being able to 'see out,' if it was only the corner of a

barren 'compound' and a few dusty oleanders. He had forgotten the

others; forgotten the time. All he asked, while the spate lasted, was to

be left alone....

He almost jumped when the latch clicked behind him and Lance strolled

in, faultlessly attired in the latest suit from home; a golden-brown tie

and a silk handkerchief, the same shade, emerging from his breast

pocket. By nature, Lance was no dandy; but Roy had not failed to note

that he was apt to be scrupulously well turned out on certain occasions.

And, at sight of him, he promptly 'remembered he had forgotten' the

very particular nature of to-day's occasion: the marriage of Miss Gladys

Elton--step-sister of Rose--to a rising civilian some eighteen years

older than his bride. It was an open secret, in the station, that the

wedding was Mrs Elton's private and personal triumph, that she, not her

unassuming daughter, was the acknowledged heroine of the day.

"Not ready yet--you unmitigated slacker?" Lance exclaimed with an

impatient frown. "Buck up. Time we were moving."

"Awfully sorry. I clean forgot." Roy's tone was not conspicuously

penitent.

"Tell us another! The whole Mess was talking of it at tiffin."

"I'm afraid I'd forgotten all about tiffin."

It was so patently the truth that Lance looked mollified. "You and your

confounded novel! Now then--double. I don't want to be glaringly late."

Roy looked pathetic. "But I'm simply up to the eyes. The truth is, I

can't be bothered. I'll turn up for the dancing at the Hall."

"And I'm to make your giddy excuses?"

"If any one happens to notice my absence, you can say something

pretty----"

He was interrupted by the appearance of Barnard at the verandah door.

"Dog-cart's ready and waiting, Major. What's the hitch?"

"Sinclair's discovered he's too busy to come!"

"What--the favoured one? The fair Rose won't relish _that_ touching mark

of attention. On whom she smiles, from him she expects gold,

frankincense, and myrrh----"

"Drop it, Barnard," Desmond cut in imperatively; and Roy remarked almost

in the same breath, "Thanks for the tip. I'll write to Bombay for the

best brand of all three against another occasion."

"But this is _the_ occasion! Copy--my dear chap, copy! Anglo-India in

excelsis and 'Oh 'Ell' in all her glory!"

It may be mentioned that Mrs Elton's name was Olive; that she saw

soldiers as trees walking. And subalterns retaliated--strictly behind

her back.

But Roy remained unmoved. "If you two are in such a fluster over your

precious wedding, I vote you get out--and let _me_ get on."

Barnard asked nothing better. Miss Arden was his May-fly of the moment.

"Come along, Major," he cried, and vanished forthwith.

As Lance moved away, Roy remarked casually: "Be a good chap and ask Miss

Arden, with my best salaams, to save me a dance or two, in case I'm late

turning up!"

Lance gave him a straight look. "Not I. My pockets will be bulging with

your apologies. You can get some one else to do your commissions in the

other line."

Sheer astonishment silenced Roy; and Desmond, from the threshold, added

more seriously, "Don't let the women here give you a swelled head, Roy.

They'll do their damnedest between them."

When he had gone, Roy sat staring idly at the patch of sunlight outside

his door. What the devil did Lance mean by it? Moods were not in his

line. To make a half-joking request, and find Lance taking it seriously,

wasn't in the natural order of things. And the way he jumped on Barnard,

too. Could there possibly have been a rebuff in that quarter? He

couldn't picture any girl in her senses refusing Lance. Besides, they

seemed on quite friendly terms. Nothing beyond that--so far as Roy could

see. He would very much like to feel sure. But, for all their intimacy,

he knew precisely how far one could go with Lance: and one couldn't go

as far as that.

As for the remark about a swelled head, Lance must have been rotting.

_He_ wasn't troubling about women or girls--except for tennis and

dancing; and Miss Arden was a superlative performer; in fact, rather

superlative all round. As a new experience, she seemed distinctly worth

cultivating, so long as that process did not seriously hamper the

novel,--that was unashamedly his first consideration, at the moment.

He loved every phase of the work; from the initial thrill of inception

to the nice balance of a phrase and the very look of his favourite

words. His childish love of them for their own sake still prevailed. For

him, they were still live things, possessing a character and charm all

their own.

And now, the house being blessedly empty, his pencil sped off again on

its wild career. The men and women he had loved into life were thronging

his brain. Everything else was forgotten--Lance and Miss Arden and the

wedding and the afternoon dancing at the Hall....

CHAPTER II.

"Which is the more perilous, to meet the temptings of Eve, or to

pique her?"--GEORGE MEREDITH.

Of course he reached the Lawrence Hall egregiously late, to find the

afternoon dancing, that Lahore prescribes three times a week, in full

swing.

The lofty pillared Hall--an aristocrat among Station Clubs--was more

crowded than usual. Half the polished floor was uncovered; the rest

carpeted and furnished, for lookers-on. Here Mrs Elton still diffused

her exuberant air of patronage; sailing majestically from group to group

of her recent guests, and looking more than life size in lavender satin

besprinkled with old lace.

Roy hurried past, lest she discover him; and, from the security of an

arched alcove, scanned the more interesting half of the Hall. There went

little Mrs Hunter-Ranyard, a fluffy pussy-cat person, with soft eyes and

soft manners--and claws. She was one of those disconnected wives whom he

was beginning to recognise as a feature of the country: unobtrusively

owned by a dyspeptic-looking Divisional Judge; hospitable and lively,

and an infallible authority on other people's private affairs. Like too

many modern Anglo-Indians, she prided herself on keeping airily apart

from the country of her exile. Natives gave her 'the creeps.' Useless to

argue. Her retort was unvarying and unanswerable. "East is East--and I'm

_not_. It's a country of horrors, under a thin layer of tinsel. Don't

talk to _me_----!" Lance Desmond had achieved fame among the subalterns

by christening her the Banter-Wrangle; but he liked her well enough, on

the whole, to hope she would never find him out.

She whirled past now, on the arm of Talbot Hayes, senior Assistant

Commissioner; an exceedingly superior person who shared her views about

'the country.' Catching Roy's eye, she feigned exaggerated surprise and

fluttered a friendly hand.

His response was automatic. He had just discovered Miss Arden--with

Lance, of course--looking supreme in a moon-coloured gown with a dull

gold sash carelessly knotted on one side. Her graceful hat was of gold

tissue, unadorned. Near the edge of the brim lay one yellow rose; and a

rope of amber beads hung well below her waist.

Roy--son of Lilámani--had an artist's eye for details of dress, for

harmony of tone and line, which this girl probably achieved by mere

feminine instinct. The fool he was, to have come so late. When they

stopped, he would catch her and plead for an extra, at least.

Meantime, a pity to waste this one; and there was poor little Miss

Delawny sitting out, as usual, in her skimpy pink frock and black hat,

trying so hard not to look forlorn that he felt sorry for her. She was

tacitly barred by most of the men because she was 'café au lait';--a

delicate allusion to the precise amount of Indian blood in her veins.

He had not, so far, come across many specimens of these pathetic

half-and-halfs, who seemed to inhabit a racial No-Man's-Land. But Lahore

was full of them; minor officials in the Railway and the Post Office;

living, more or less, in a substratum of their own kind. He gathered

that they were regarded as a 'problem' by the thoughtful few, and simply

turned down by the rest. He felt an acute sympathy for them: also--in

hidden depths--a vague distaste. Most of those he had encountered were

so obviously of no particular caste, in either country's estimate of the

word, that he had never associated them with himself. He saw himself,

rather, as of double caste; a fusion of the best in both races. The

writer of that wonderful letter had said he was different; and

presumably she knew. Whether the average Anglo-Indian would see any

difference, he had not the remotest idea; and, so far, he had scarcely

given the matter a thought.

Here, however, it was thrust upon his attention; nor had he failed to

notice that Lance never mentioned the Jaipur cousins except when they

were alone:--whether by chance or design, he did not choose to ask. And

if either of the other fellows had noticed his mother's photograph, or

felt a glimmer of curiosity, no word had been said.

After all, what concern was it of these chance-met folk? He was nothing

to them; and to him they were mainly a pleasant change from the

absorbing business of his novel and the problems of India in transition.

And the poor little girl in the skimpy frock was an unconscious fragment

of that problem. Too pathetic to see how she tried not to look round

hopefully whenever masculine footsteps came her way. Why shouldn't he

give her a pleasant surprise?

She succeeded, this time, in not looking round; so the surprise came off

to his satisfaction. She was nervous and unpractised, and he constantly

found her feet where they had no business to be. But sooner than hurt

her feelings, he piloted her twice round the room before stopping; and

found himself next to Mrs Hunter-Ranyard, who 'snuggled up' to him (the

phrase was Barnard's) and proffered consolation after her kind.

"Bad boy! You missed the cream of the afternoon, but you're not _quite_

too late. I'm free for the next."

Roy, fairly cornered, could only bow and smile his acceptance. And after

his arduous prelude, Mrs Ranyard's dancing was an effortless delight--if

only she would not spoil it by her unceasing ripple of talk. His lack of

response troubled her no whit. She was bubbling over with caustic

comment on Mrs Elton's latest adventure in matrimony.

"She's a mighty hunter, before the Lord! She marked down poor Hilton

last cold weather," cooed the silken voice in Roy's inattentive ear. "Of

course you know he's one of our coming men! And I've a shrewd idea he

_was_ intended for Rose. But in Miss Rose the matchmaker has met her

match! She's clever--that girl; and she's reduced the tactics of

non-resistance to a fine art. I don't believe she ever stands up to her

mother. She smiles and smiles--and goes her own way. She likes playing

with soldiers; partly because they're good company; partly, I'll swear,

because she knows it keeps her mother on tenter-hooks. But when it

comes to business, she'll choose as shrewdly----"

Roy stopped dancing and confronted her, half laughing, half irate. "If

you're keen on talking--let's talk. I can't do both." He stated the fact

politely, but with decision. "And--frankly, I hate hearing a girl pulled

to pieces, just because she's charming and good-looking and----"

"Oh, my _dear_ boy," she interrupted unfailingly--sweet solicitude in

her lifted gaze. "_Did_ I trample on your chivalrous toes? Or is

it----?"

"No, it _isn't_." He resented the barefaced implication. "Naturally--I

admire her----"

"Oh, naturally! You can't help yourselves, any of you! She's 'sooner

caught than the pestilence, and the taker runs presently mad.' No use

looking daggers! It's a fact. I don't say she flirts outrageously--like

I do! She simply expects homage--and gets it. She expects men to fall in

love with her--and they topple over like ninepins. Sometimes--when I'm

feeling magnanimous--I catch a ninepin as it falls! Look at her now,

with that R.E. boy--plainly in the toils!"

Roy declined to look. If she was trying to put him off Miss Arden, she

was on the wrong tack. Besides--he wanted to dance.

"One more turn?" he suggested, nipping a fresh outbreak in the bud.

"But, please--no talking."

She laughed and shook her fan at him. "Epicure!" But after all, it was

an indirect compliment to her dancing: and for the space of two minutes,

she held her peace.

Throughout the brief pause, she rippled on, with negligible interludes;

but not till they re-entered the Hall did she revert to the theme that

had so exasperated Roy. There she espied Desmond, standing under an

archway, staring straight before him, apparently lost in thought.

She indicated him, discreetly, with her fan. "The Happy Warrior (that's

my private name for him) seems to have something on his mind. Can he

have proposed--at last? I confess I'm curious. But of course _you_ know

all about it, Mr Sinclair. Don't tell _me_!"

"I won't!" said Roy gravely. "You probably know more than I do."

"But I thought you were such _intimate_ friends? How superbly

masculine!"

"Well--he is."

"Oh, he is! He's so firmly planted on his feet that he tacitly invites

one to tilt at him! I confess I've already tried my hand--and failed. So

it soothes my vanity to observe that even the Rose of Sharon isn't

visibly upsetting his balance. Frankly, I'm more than a little intrigued

over that affair. It seems to have reached a certain point and stuck

there. At one time--I thought----"

Her thought remained unuttered. Roy was patently not attending. Miss

Arden and the 'R.E. boy' had just entered the Hall.

"Don't let me keep you," she added sweetly. "It's evident _she's_ the

next!"

Roy collected himself with a jerk. "You're wiser than I am! I've not

asked her yet."

"Then you can save yourself the trouble and go on dancing with me! She's

always booked up ahead----"

Her blue eyes challenged him laughingly; but he caught the undernote of

rivalry. For half a second the scales hung even between courtesy and

inclination; then, from the tail of his eye, he saw Hayes bearing down

upon the other pair. That decided him. He had conceived an unreasoning

dislike of Talbot Hayes.

"I'm awfully sorry," he said politely. "But--I sent word I was coming in

for the dancing; and----"

"Oh, go along then and get your fingers burnt, as you deserve. But never

say _I_ didn't try and save them!"

Roy laughed. "They aren't in any danger, thanks very much!"

Just as he reached Miss Arden, the R.E. boy left her, and Lance,

forsaking his pillar, strolled casually to her side.

She greeted Roy with a faint lift of her brows.

"Was I unspeakable----? I apologise," he said impulsively; and her smile

absolved him.

"You were wiser than you knew. You escaped an infliction. It was

insufferably dull. We all smiled and smiled, till there were 'miles and

miles of smiles'; and we were all bored to extinction! Ask Major

Desmond!"

She acknowledged his presence with a sidelong glance. He returned it

with a quick look that told Roy he had been touched on the raw.

"As I spent most of the time talking to you--and as you've just recorded

your sensations, I'd rather be excused," he said with a touch of

stiffness. "Your innings, I suppose, old man?" And, with a friendly nod,

he moved away.

Roy, watching him go, felt almost angry with the girl, and impetuously

spoke his thought.

"Poor old Desmond! What did you give him a knock for? _He_ couldn't be

dull, if he tried."

"N-no," she agreed, without removing her eyes from his retreating

figure. "But sometimes--he can be aggressive."

"I've never noticed it."

"How long have you known him?"

"A trifle of fifteen years."

"Quite a romantic friendship?"

Roy nodded. He did not choose to discuss his feeling for Lance with this

cool, compelling young woman. Yet her very coolness goaded him to add:

"I suppose men see more clearly than women that--he's one in a

thousand."

"I'm--not so sure----"

"Yet you snub him as if he was a tin-pot 'sub.'"

His resentment would out; but the smile in her eyes disarmed him.

"Was it as bad as that? What a pair you are! Don't worry. We know each

other's little ways by now."

It was scarcely convincing; but Lance would not thank him for

interfering; and the band had struck up. No sign of a partner. It seemed

the luck was 'in'.

"Did Desmond give you my message?" he asked.

"No--what?"

"Only--that I hoped you'd be magnanimous.... Is there a chance----?"

Her eyes rested deliberately on his; and the last spark of resentment

flickered out. "More than you deserve! But this one does happen to be

free...."

"Well, we won't waste any of it," said he:--and they danced without a

break, without a word, till the perfect accord of their circling and

swaying ceased with the last notes of the valse.

That was the real thing, thought Roy, but felt too shy for compliments;

and they merely exchanged a smile. He had felt the pleasure was mutual.

Now he knew it.

Out through the portico they passed into the cool green gardens, freshly

watered, exhaling a smell of moist earth and the fragrance of unnumbered

roses--a very whiff of Home: bushes, standards, ramblers; and

everywhere--flaunting its supremacy--the Maréchal Niel; sprawling over

hedges, scrambling up evergreens and falling again, in cascades of

moon-yellow blossoms and glossy leaves.

Roy, keenly alive to the exquisite mingling of scent and colour and

evening lights--was still more alive to the silent girl at his side, who

seemed to radiate both the lure and the subtle antagonism of sex--in

itself an inverted form of fascination.

They had strolled half round the empty bandstand before she remarked, in

her cool, low-pitched voice: "You really are a flagrantly casual person,

Mr Sinclair. I sometimes wonder--is it _quite_ spontaneous? Or--do you

find it effective?"

Roy frankly turned and stared at her. "Effective? _What_ a question?"

Her smile puzzled and disconcerted him.

"Well, you've answered it with your usual pristine frankness! I see--it

was not intentional."

"Why should it be?"

"Oh, if you don't know--I don't! I merely wondered--You did say

definitely you would come to the reception. So of course--I expected

you. Then you never turned up. And--naturally----!"

A ghost of a shrug completed the sentence.

"I'm awfully sorry. I didn't flatter myself you'd notice----" Roy said

simply. There were moments when she made him feel vexatiously young.

"You see--it was my novel--got me by the hair. And when that happens,

I'm rather apt to let things slide. Anyway, you got the better man. And

if you found _him_ dull, I'd have been nowhere."

She was silent a moment. Then: "I think--if you don't mind--we'll leave

Major Desmond out of it," she said; adding, with a distinct change of

tone: "What's the hidden charm in that common little Miss Delawny? I

saw you dancing with her again to-day."

The subtle flattery of the question might have taken effect, had it not

followed on her perplexing remark about Lance. As it was, he resented

it.

"Why not? She's quite a nice little person."

"I daresay. But we've plenty of nice girls in our own set."

"Oh, plenty. But I rather bar set mania. I've a catholic taste in human

beings!"

"And I've an ultra fastidious one!" Look and tone gave her statement a

delicately personal flavour. "Besides, out here ... there are

limits----"

"And I must respect them, on penalty of your displeasure?" His tone was

airily defiant. "Well--make me out a list of irreproachables, and I'll

work them off in rotation--between whiles!"

The implication of that last subtly made amends: and she had a taste for

the minor subtleties of intercourse.

"I shall do nothing of the kind! You're perfectly graceless this

evening! I suspect all that scribbling goes to your head sometimes.

Sitting on Olympian heights, controlling destinies! I suppose we

earthworms down below all look pretty much alike? To discriminate

between mere partners--is human. To embrace them

indiscriminately--divine!"

Roy laughed. "Oh, if it came to embracing----"

"Even an Olympian might be a shade less catholic?" she queried with one

of her looks, that stirred in Roy sensations far removed from Olympian.

Random talk did not flourish in Miss Arden's company: delicately,

insistently she steered it back to the focal point of interest--herself

and the man of the moment.

From the circular drive they wandered on, unheeding; and when they

re-entered the Hall a fresh dance had begun. Under the arch they paused.

Miss Arden's glance scanned the room and reverted to Roy. The last ten

minutes had appreciably advanced their intimacy.

"Shall we?" he asked, returning her look with interest. "Is the luck in

again?"

Her eyes assented. He slipped an arm round her--and once more they

danced....

Roy had been Olympian indeed had he not perceived the delicate flattery

implied in his apparent luck. Lance had not given his message. Yet two

dances were available. The inference was not without its insidious

effect on a man temperamentally incapable of conceit.

The valse was nearly half over, when the least little drag on his arm so

surprised him that he stopped almost opposite the main archway;--and

caught sight of Lance, evidently looking for some one.

"Oh--there he is!" Miss Arden's low tone was almost flurried--for her.

"D'you want him?"

"Well--I suppose he wants me. This was his dance."

"Good Lord! What a mean shame," Roy flashed out. "Why on earth didn't

you tell me? Wouldn't for the world...."

Her colour rose under his heated protest. "I never hang about for

unpunctual partners. If they don't turn up in time--it's their loss."

Roy, intent on Lance, was scarcely listening. "He's seen us now. Come

along. Let's explain."

It was Miss Arden who did the explaining in a manner all her own.

"Well--what became of you?" she asked, smiling in response to Desmond's

look of interrogation. "As you didn't appear, I concluded you'd either

forgotten or been caught in a rubber."

"Bad shots,--both," Desmond retorted with a direct look.

"I'm awfully sorry ... I hadn't a notion----" Roy began--and checked

himself, perceiving that he could not say much without implicating his

partner.

This time Desmond's smile had quite another quality. "You're very

welcome. Carry on. Don't mind me. It's half over."

"A model of generosity!" Miss Arden applauded him. "I'm free for the

next--if you'd care to have it instead."

"Thanks very much; but I'm not," Desmond answered serenely.

"The great little Banter-Wrangle--is it? You could plead a

misunderstanding and bribe Mr Sinclair to save the situation!"

"Hard luck on Sinclair. But it's not Mrs Ranyard. I'm sorry----"

"Don't apologise. If you're satisfied, I am."

For all her careless tone, Roy had never seen her so nearly put out of

countenance. Desmond said nothing; and for a moment--the briefest--there

fell an awkward silence. Then with an air of marked graciousness she

turned to Roy.

"We are generously permitted to go on, with a clear conscience!"

But for Roy the charm was broken. Her cavalier treatment of Lance

annoyed him; and beneath the surface play of looks and words he had

detected the flash of steel. It was some satisfaction that Lance had

given as good as he received. But he felt troubled and curious. And he

was likely to remain so. Lance, he very well knew, would say precisely

nothing.

The girl, as if divining his thoughts, combated them with the delicately

pointed weapons of her kind--and prevailed.

Again they wandered in the darkening garden and returned to find the

Boston in full swing. Again Miss Arden's glance travelled casually round

the room. And Roy saw her start; just enough to swear by....

Desmond was dancing with Miss Delawny----!

The frivolous comment on Roy's lips was checked by the look in his

partner's eyes. Impossible not to wonder if Lance had actually been

engaged; or if----?

In any case--a knock for Miss Arden's vanity. A shade too severe,

perhaps; yet sympathy for her was tinged with exultation that Lance had

held his own. Mrs Ranyard was right. Here was a man set firmly on his

feet....

Miss Arden's voice drew his wandering attention back to herself. "We may

as well finish this. Or are you also--engaged?"

Her light stress on the word held a significance he did not miss.

"To you--if you will!" he answered gallantly, hand on heart. "More than

I deserve--as you said; but still----"

"It's just possible for a woman to be magnanimous!" she capped him,

smiling. "And it's just possible for a man to be--the other thing!

Remember that--when you get back to your eternal scribbling!"

An hour later he rode homeward with a fine confusion of sensations and

impressions, doubts and desires seething in his brain. Miss Arden was

delightful, but a trifle unsettling. She must not be allowed to distract

him from the work he loved.

CHAPTER III.

"Shall I cool desire

By looking at those lovely eyes of hers,

That passionate love prefers

To his own brand, for setting hearts on fire."

--EDMUND GOSSE.

But neither the work he loved, nor his budding intimacy with Miss Arden,

deterred him from accepting a week-end invitation from the Maharajah of

Kapurthala--the friendly, hospitable ruler of a neighbouring Sikh State.

The Colonel was going, and Lance, and half a dozen other good sportsmen.

They set out on Thursday, the military holiday, in a state of high

good-humour with themselves and their host; to return on Sunday evening,

renewed in body and mind by the pursuit of pig and the spirit of Shikar,

that keeps a man sane and virile, and tempers the insidious effect, on

the white races, of life and work in the climate of India. It draws men

away from the rather cramping station atmosphere. It sets their feet in

a large room. And in this case it did not fail to dispel the light cloud

that had hovered between Lance and Roy since the day of the wedding.

In the friendly rivalries of sport, it was possible to forget woman

complications; even to feel it a trifle derogatory that one should be so

ignominiously at the mercy of the thing. Thus Roy, indulging in a

spasmodic declaration of independence; glorying in the virile excitement

of pig-sticking, and the triumph of getting first spear.

But returning on Saturday, from a day after snipe and teal, he found

himself instinctively allotting the pick of his 'bag' to Miss Arden;

just a complimentary attention; the sort of thing she would appreciate.

Having refused a ride with her because of this outing, it seemed the

least he could do.

Apparently the same strikingly original idea had occurred to Lance; and

by the merest fluke they found one another out. To Roy's relief, Lance

greeted the embarrassing discovery with a gust of laughter.

"I say--this won't do. You give over. It's too much of a joke.

Besides--cheek on your part."

Though he spoke lightly, the hint of command in his tone promptly put

Roy on the defensive.

"Rot! Why shouldn't I? But--the _two_ of them...! A bit overwhelming!"

And suddenly he remembered his declaration of independence. "After

all--why should either of us? Can't we let be, just for four days? Look

here, Lance. You give over too. Don't send yours. And I won't send

mine."

Lance--having considered that inspired proposal--turned a speculative

eye on Roy.

"Lord, what a kid you are, still!"

"Well, I mean it. Out here, we're clear of all that. Over there, the

women call the tune--we dance. Sport's the God-given antidote! Though it

won't be so much longer--the way things are going. We shall soon have

'em after pig and on the polo ground----"

"God forbid!" It came out with such fervour that Roy laughed.

"He doesn't--that's the trouble! He gives us all the rope we want. And

the women may be trusted to take every available inch. I'm not sure

there isn't a grain of wisdom in the Eastern plan; keeping them, so to

speak, in a separate compartment. Once you open a chink, they flow in

and swamp everything."

Up went Lance's eyebrows. "That--from you?" And Roy made haste to add:

"I wasn't thinking of mothers and sisters; but the kind you play round

with ... before you marry. They've a big pull out here. Very good fun of

course. And if a man's keen on marrying----"

"Aren't you keen?" Lance cut in with a quick look.

"N-no. Not just yet, anyway. It's a plunge. And I'm too full up with

other things.--But what about the birds?"

"Oh, we'll let be--as you sagely suggest!"

And they did.

More pig-sticking next morning, with two tuskers for trophies; and

thereafter, they travelled reluctantly back to harness, by an afternoon

train, feeling--without exception--healthier, happier men.

None of them, perhaps, was more conscious of that inner renewal than

Lance and Roy. The incident of the game seemed in some way to have

cleared the air between them; and throughout the return journey, both

were in the maddest spirits, keeping the whole carriage in an uproar.

Afterwards, driving homeward, Roy registered a resolve to spend more of

his time on masculine society and the novel; less of it dancing and

fooling about in Lahore....

* * * * *

A vision of his table, with its inviting disarray, and the picture of

his mother for presiding genius, gave his heart a lift. He promised

himself a week of uninterrupted evenings, alone with Terry and his

thronging thoughts; when the whole house was still and the reading-lamp

made a magic circle of light in the surrounding gloom....

Meantime, there were letters: one from his father, one from Jeffers; and

beneath them a too familiar envelope.

At sight of it, he felt a faint tug inside him; as it were a whispered

reminder that, away at Kapurthala, he had been about as free as a bird

with a string round its leg. He resented the aptness of that degrading

simile. It was a new sensation; and he did not relish it. The few women

he intimately loved had counted for so much in his life that he scarcely

realised his abysmal ignorance of the power that is in woman--the mere

opposite of man; the implicit challenge, the potent lure. Partly from

temperament, partly from principle, he had kept more or less clear of

'all that'. Now, weaponless, he had rashly entered the lists.

He opened Miss Arden's note feeling antagonistic. But its friendliness

disarmed him. She hoped they had enjoyed themselves immensely and slain

enough creatures to satisfy their primitive instincts. And her mother

hoped Mr Sinclair would dine with them on Wednesday evening: quite a

small affair.

His first impulse was to refuse; but her allusion to the slain creatures

touched up his conscience. To cap the omission by refusing her

invitation might annoy her. No sense in that. So he decided to accept;

and sat down to enjoy his home letters at leisure.

Lance, it transpired, had not been asked. He and Barnard were the

favoured ones,--and, on the appointed evening, they drove in together.

Roy had been writing nearly all day. He had reached a point in his

chapter at which a break was distracting. Yet here he was, driving

Barnard to Lahore, cursing his luck, and--yes--trying to ignore a

flutter of anticipation in the region of his heart....

As far as mere lust of the eye went--and it went a good way with Roy--he

had his reward the moment he entered Mrs Elton's overloaded

drawing-room. Rose Arden excelled herself in evening dress. The carriage

of her head, the curve of her throat, and the admirable line from ear to

shoulder made a picture supremely satisfying to his artist's eye.

Her negligible bodice was a filmy affair--ivory white with glints of

gold. Her gauzy gold wedding-sash, swathed round her hips, fell in a

fringed knot below her knee. Filmy sleeves floated from her shoulders,

leaving the arms bare and unadorned, except for one gold bangle, high

up--the latest note from Home. For the rest, her rope of amber beads and

long earrings only a few tones lighter than her astonishing hazel eyes.

Face to face with her beauty, and her discreetly veiled pleasure at

sight of him, he could not be ungracious enough to curse his luck. But

his satisfaction cooled at sight of Talbot Hayes by the mantelpiece,

inclining his polished angularity to catch some confidential tit-bit

from little Mrs Hunter-Ranyard. Of course that fellow would take her in.

He, Roy, had no official position now; and without it one was negligible

in Anglo-India. Besides, Mrs Elton openly favoured Talbot Hayes. Failing

Rose, there were two more prospective brides at Home--twins; and Hayes

was fatally endowed with all the surface symptoms of the 'coming man':

the supple alertness and self-assurance; the instinct for the right

thing; and--supreme asset in these days--a studious detachment from the

people and the country. In consequence, needless to say, he remained

obstinately sceptical as regards the rising storm.

Very early, Roy had put out feelers to discover how much he understood

or cared; and Hayes had blandly assured him: "Bengal may bluster and

the D.C. may pessimise, but you can take it from me, there will be no

serious upheaval in the North. If ever these people are fools enough to

manoeuvre us out of India, so much the worse for them; so much the

better for us. It's a beastly country."

Nevertheless Roy observed that he appeared to extract out of the beastly

country every available ounce of enjoyment. In affable moments, he could

even manage to forget his career--and unbend. He was unbending now.

A few paces off, the dyspeptic Judge was discussing 'the situation' with

his host--a large unwieldy man, so nervous of his own bulk and unready

wit that only the discerning few discovered the sensitive, friendly

spirit very completely hidden under a bushel. Roy, who had liked him at

sight, felt vaguely sorry for him. He seemed a fish out of water in his

own home; overwhelmed by the florid, assured personality of his wife.

They were the last, of course; nearly five minutes late. Trust Roy. Only

four other guests; Dr Ethel Wemyss, M.B., lively and clever and new to

the country; Major and Mrs Garten of the Sikhs, with a stolid

good-humoured daughter, who unfailingly wore the same frock and the same

disarming smile.

The Deputy Commissioner's wife permitted herself few military intimates.

But she had come in touch with Mrs Garten over a _dhobi's_[19] chit and

a recipe for pumelo gin. Both women were consumedly Anglo-Indian. All

their values were social;--pay, promotion, prestige. All their

lamentations pitched in the same key:--everything dearer, servants

'impossible,' hospitality extinct, with every one saving and scraping to

get Home. Both were deeply versed in bazaar prices and the sins of

native servants. Hence, in due course, a friendship (according to Mrs

Ranyard) 'broad based on _jharrons_[20] and charcoal and kerosene'!

The two were lifting up their voices in unison over the mysterious

shortage of kerosene (that arch-sinner Mool Chand said none was coming

into the country) when dinner was announced; and Talbot

Hayes--inevitably--offered his arm to Miss Arden.

Roy, consigned to Dr Wemyss, could only pray heaven for the next best

thing--Miss Arden on his left. Instead, amazedly, he found himself

promoted to a seat beside her mother, who still further amazed him by

treating him to a much larger share of her attention than the law of the

dinner-table prescribed. Her talk, in the main, was local and personal;

and Roy simply let it flow; his eyes flagrantly straying down the table

towards Miss Arden and Hayes, who seemed very intimate this evening.

Suddenly he found himself talking about Home. It began with gardens. Mrs

Elton had a passion for them, as her _mális_[21] knew to their cost; and

the other day a friend had told her that somebody said Mr Sinclair had a

lovely place at Home, with a _wonderful_ old garden----?

Mr Sinclair admitted as much, with masculine brevity.

Undeterred, she drew out the sentimental stop:--the charm of a _real_

old English garden! Out here, one only used the word by courtesy.

Laborites, of course, were specially favoured; but do what one would, it

was never _quite_ the same thing--was it...?

Not quite, Roy agreed amicably--and wondered what the joke was down

there. He supposed Miss Arden must have had some say in the geography of

the table....

Her mother, meantime, had tacked sail and was probing him, indirectly,

about his reasons for remaining in India. Was he going in for politics,

or the life of a country gentleman in his beautiful home? Her remarks

implied that she took him for the eldest son. And Roy, who had not been

attending, realised with a jar that, in vulgar parlance, he was being

discreetly pumped. Whereat, politely but decisively, he sheered off and

stuck to his partner till the meal was over.

The men seemed to linger interminably over their wine and cigars. But he

managed to engage the D.C. on the one subject that put shyness to

flight--the problems of changing India. With more than twenty years of

work and observation behind him, he saw the widening gulf between rulers

and ruled as an almost equal disaster for both. He knew, none better,

all that had been achieved, in his own Province alone, for the peasant

and the loyal landowner. He had made many friends among the Indians of

his district; and from these he had received repeated warnings of

widespread, organised rebellion. Yet he was helpless; tied hand and foot

in yards of red tape....

It was not the first time that Roy had enjoyed a talk with him; a sense

of doors opening on to larger spaces. But this evening restlessness

nagged at him; and at the first hint of a move he was on his feet,

determined to forestall Hayes.

He succeeded; and Miss Arden welcomed him with the lift of her brows

that he was growing to watch for when they met. It seemed to imply a

certain intimacy.

"Very brown and vigorous, you're looking. Was it--great fun?"

"It was topping," he answered with simple fervour. "Rare sport.

Everything in style."

"And no leisure to miss partners left lamenting? I hope our stars shone

the brighter, glorified by distance?"

Her eyes challenged him with smiling deliberation. His own met them

full; and a little tingling shock ran through him, as at the touch of an

electric needle.

"_Some_ stars are dazzling enough at close quarters," he said boldly.

"But surely--'distance lends enchantment'----?"

"It depends a good deal on the view!"

At that moment, up came Hayes, with his ineffable air of giving a cachet

to any one he honoured with his favour. And Miss Arden hailed him, as if

they had not met for a week.

Thus encouraged, of course he clung like a limpet; and reverted to some

subject they had been discussing, tacitly isolating Roy.

For a few exasperating moments, he stood his ground, counting on bridge

to remove the limpet. But when Hayes refused a pressing invitation to

join Mrs Ranyard's table, Roy gave it up, and deliberately walked away.

Only Mr Elton remained sitting near the fireplace. His look of

undisguised pleasure, at Roy's approach, atoned for a good deal; and

they renewed their talk where it had broken off. Roy almost forgot he

was speaking to a senior official; freely expressed his own thoughts;

and even ventured to comment on the strange detachment of Anglo-Indians,

in general, from a land full of such vast and varied interests, lying at

their very doors.

"Perhaps--I misjudge them," he added with the unfailing touch of modesty

that was not least among his charms. "But to me it sometimes seems as if

a curtain hung between their eyes and India. And--it's catching. In some

subtle way this little concentrated world, within a world, seems to draw

one's receptiveness away from it all. Is that very sweeping, sir?"

A smile dawned in Mr Elton's rather mournful eyes. "In a sense--it's

painfully true. But the fact is--Anglo-Indian life can't be fairly

judged from the outside. It has to be lived before its insidiousness can

be suspected." He moistened his lips and caressed his chin with a large,

sensitive hand. "Happily--there are a good many exceptions."

"If I wasn't talking to one of them, sir--I wouldn't have ventured!"

said Roy; and the friendly smile deepened.

"All the same," Elton went on, "there are those who assert that it is

half the secret of our success; that India conquered the conquerors, who

lived _with_ her and so lost their virility. Yet in our earlier days,

when the personal touch was a reality, we _did_ achieve a better

relation all round. Of course the present state of affairs is the

inevitable fruit of our whole system. By the Anglicising process, we

have spread all over India a vast layer of minor officials some six

million persons deep! Consider, my dear young man, the significance of

those figures. We reduce the European staff. We increase the drudgery of

their office work--and we wonder why the Sahib and the peasant are no

longer personal friends----!"

Stirred by his subject, and warmed by Roy's intelligent interest, the

man's nervous tricks disappeared. He spoke eagerly, earnestly, as to an

equal in experience; a compliment Roy would have been quicker to

appreciate had not half his attention been centred on that exasperating

pair, who had retired to a cushioned alcove and looked like remaining

there for good.

What the devil had the girl invited him for? If she wished to

disillusion him, she was succeeding to admiration. If she fancied he was

one of her infernal ninepins, she was very much mistaken. And all the

while he found himself growing steadily more distracted, more

insistently conscious of her....

Voices and laughter heralded an influx of bridge players; Mrs Ranyard,

with Barnard, Miss Garten, and Dr Wemyss. A table of three women and one

man did not suit the little lady's taste.

"We're a very scratch lot. And we want fresh blood!" she announced

carnivorously, as the pair in the alcove rose and came forward.

The two men rose also, but went on with their talk. They knew it was not

their blood Mrs Ranyard was seeking. Roy kept his back turned and

studiously refrained from hoping....

"If you two have _quite_ finished breaking up the Empire...?" said Miss

Arden's voice at his elbow. She had approached so quietly that he

started. Worse still, he knew she had seen. "I was terrified of being

caught,"--she turned affectionately to her stepfather--"so I flung Mr

Hayes to the wolves--and fled. You're sanctuary!"

Her fingers caressed his sleeve. Words and touch waked a smile in his

mournful eyes. They seemed to understand one another, these two. To Roy

she had never seemed more charming; and his own abrupt volte-face was

unsteadying, to say the least of it.

"Hayes would prove a tough mouthful--even for wolves," Elton remarked

pensively.

"He _would_! He's so securely lacquered over with--well--we won't be

unkind. _But_--strictly between ourselves, Pater--wouldn't you love to

swop him for Mr Sinclair, these days?"

"My _dear_!" Elton reproached her, nervously shifting his large hands.

"Hayes is a model--of efficiency! But--well, well--if Mr Sinclair will

forgive flattery to his face--I should say he has many fine qualities

for an Indian career, should he be inclined that way----"

"Thank you, sir. I'd no notion----" Roy murmured, overwhelmed, as

Elton--seeing Miss Garten stranded--moved dutifully to her rescue.

Miss Arden glanced again at Roy. "_Are_ you inclining that way?"

The question took him aback.

"Me? No. Of course I'd love it--for some things."

"You're well out of it, in my opinion. It'll soon be no country for a

white man. He's already little more than a futile superfluity----"

"On the contrary," Roy struck in warmly, "the Englishman--of the

rightest sort, is more than ever needed in India to-day."

Her slight shrug conceded the point. "I never argue! And if you start on

_that_ subject--I'm nowhere! You can save it all up for the Pater. He's

rather a dear--don't you think?"

"He's splendid."

Her smile had its caressing quality. "That's the last adjective any one

else would apply to him! But it's true. There's a fine streak in

him--very carefully hidden away. People don't see it, because he's shy

and clumsy and hasn't an ounce of push. But he understands the natives.

Loves them. Goodness knows why. And he's got the right touch. I could

tell you a tale----"

"Do!" he urged. "Tales are my pet weakness."

She subsided into the empty chair and looked up invitingly. "Sit," she

commanded--and he obeyed.

He was neither saying nor doing the things he had meant to say or do.

But the mere beauty of her enthralled him; the alluring grace of her

pose, leaning forward a little, bare arms resting on her knees. No vivid

colour anywhere except her lips. Those lips, thought Roy, were

responsible for a good deal. Their flexible softness discounted more

than a little the deliberation of her eyes; and to-night, her charming

attitude to Elton appreciably quickened his interest in her and her

tale.

"It happened out in the district. I heard it from a friend." She leaned

nearer and spoke in a confidential undertone. "He got news that some

neighbouring town was in a ferment. Only a handful of Europeans there;

an American mission; and no troops. So the 'mish' people begged him to

come in and politely wave his official wand. You must be very polite to

_badmashes_[22] these days, if you're a mere Sahib; or you hear of it

from some little Tin God sitting safe in his office, hundreds of miles

away. Well, off he went--a twenty-mile drive; found the mission in a

flutter--I don't blame them--armed with rifles and revolvers;

expecting-every-moment-to-be-their-next sort of thing; and the town in

an uproar. Some religious tamasha. He talked like a father to the

headmen; and assured the 'mish' people it would be all right.

"They begged him to stay and see them through. So he said he would sleep

at the dák bungalow. 'All alone?' they asked. 'No one to guard you?'

'Quite unnecessary,' he said:--and they were simply amazed!

"It was rather hot; so he had his bed put in the garden. Then he sent

for the leading men and said: 'I hear there's a disturbance going on. I

don't intimate you have anything to do with it. But you are responsible;

and I expect you to keep the people in hand. I'm sleeping here to-night.

If there is trouble, you can report to me. But it is for _you_ to keep

order in your own town.'

"They salaamed and departed. No one came near him. And he drove off next

morning, leaving those Americans, with their rifles and revolvers, more

amazed than ever! I was told it made a great impression on the natives,

his sleeping alone in the garden, without so much as a sentry. And the

cream of it is," she added--her eyes on Elton's unheroic figure--"the

man who could do that is terrified of walking across a ballroom or

saying polite things to a woman!"

Distinctly, to-night, she was in a new vein, more attractive to Roy than

all her feminine crafts and lures. Sitting, friendly and at ease over

the fire, they discussed human idiosyncrasies--a pet subject with him.

Then, suddenly, she looked him in the eyes;--and he was aware of her

again, in the old disturbing way.

Yet she was merely remarking, with a small sigh, "You can't think how

refreshing it is to get a little real talk sometimes with a cultivated

man who is neither a soldier nor a civilian. Even in a big station,

we're so boxed in with 'shop' and personalities. The men are luckier.

They can escape now and then; shake off the women as one shakes off

burrs----!"

Another glance here; half sceptical, wholly captivating.

"It's easier said than done," admitted Roy, recalling his own partial

failure.

"Charming of you to confess it! Dare I confess that I've found the Hall

and the tennis rather flat these few days--without imperilling your

phenomenal modesty?"

"I think you dare." It was he who looked full at her now. "My modesty

badly needs bucking up--this evening."

Her feigned surprise was delicately done. "What a shame! Who's been

snubbing you? Our clever M.B.?"

"Not at all. You've got the initials wrong."

"_Did_ it hurt your feelings--as much as all that?" She dropped the

flimsy pretence and her eyes proffered apology.

"Well--you invited me."

"And mother invited Mr Hayes! The fact is--he's been rather in evidence

these few days. And one can't flick _him_ off like an ordinary mortal.

He's a 'coming man'!" She folded hands and lips and looked deliciously

demure. "All the same--it _was_ unkind. You were so unhappy at dinner. I

could feel it all that way off. Be magnanimous and come for a ride

to-morrow--do."

And Roy--the detached, the disillusioned--accepted with alacrity.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 19: Washerman.]

[Footnote 20: Dusters.]

[Footnote 21: Gardener.]

[Footnote 22: Bad characters.]

CHAPTER IV.

"For every power, a man pays toll in a corresponding weakness; and

probably the artist pays heaviest of all."--M.P. WILLCOCKS.

It was the morning of the great Gymkhana, to be followed by the

Bachelors' Ball. For Lahore's unfailing social energy was not yet spent;

though Depot troops had gone to the Hills, and the leave season was

open, releasing a fortunate few; leaving the rest to fretful or stoical

endurance of the stealthy, stoking-up process of a Punjab hot-weather.

And the true inwardness of those three words must be burned into body

and brain, season after season, to be even remotely understood.

Already earth and air were full of whispered warnings. Roses and

sweet-peas were fading. Social life was virtually suspended between

twelve and two, the 'calling hours' of the cold weather; and at sunset

the tree-crickets shrilled louder than ever--careless heralds of doom.

Human tempers were shorter; and even the night did not now bring

unfailing relief.

Roy had been sleeping badly again; partly the heat, partly the clash of

sensations within him. This morning, after hours of tossing and dozing

and dreaming--not the right kind of dreams at all,--he was up and out

before sunrise, forsaking the bed that betrayed him for the saddle that

never failed to bring a measure of respite from the fever of body and

mind that was stultifying, insidiously, his reason and his will.

Still immersed in his novel, he had come up to Lahore heart-free,

purpose-free; vaguely aware that virtue had gone out of him; looking

forward to a few weeks of careless enjoyment, between spells of work;

and above all, to the 'high old time' he and Lance would have together

beyond Kashmir. Women and marriage were simply not in the picture. His

attitude to that inevitable event was, on his own confession--'not yet.'

Possibly, when he got Home, he might discover it was Tara, after all. It

would need some courage to propose again. For the memory of that

juvenile fiasco still pricked his sensitive pride. A touch of the Rajput

came out there. Letters from Serbia seemed to dawdle unconscionably by

the way. But, in leisurely course, he had received an answer to his

screed about Dyán and the quest; a letter alive with all he loved best

in her--enthusiasm, humour, vivid sympathy, deepened and enlarged by

experiences that could not yet be told. But Tara was far and Miss Arden

was near; and, in the mysterious workings of sex magnetism, mere

propinquity too often prevails.

And all the others seemed farther still. They wrote regularly,

affectionately. Yet their letters--especially his father's--seemed to

tell precious little of the things he really wanted to know. Perhaps his

own had been more reserved than he realised. There had been so much at

Jaipur and Delhi that he could not very well enlarge upon. No use

worrying the dear old man; and she, who had linked them, unfailingly,

was now seldom mentioned between them.

So there grew up in Roy a disconsolate feeling that none of them cared

very much whether he came Home or not. Jerry--after three years in a

German prison--was a nervous wreck; still undergoing treatment; humanly

lost, for the time being. Tiny was absorbed in her husband and an even

Tinier baby, called Nevil Le Roy, after himself. Tara was not yet home;

but coming before long, because Aunt Helen had broken down, between war

work and the shock of Atholl's death.

A queer thing--separation, mused Roy, as Suráj slowed down to a walk and

the glare of morning flamed along the sky. There were they--and here was

he: close relations, in effect; almost strangers in fact. There was more

between him and them than several hundred miles of sea. There was the

bottomless gulf of the War; the gulf of his bitter grief and the slow

climb up from the depths to Pisgah heights of revelation. Impossible to

communicate--even had he willed--those inner, vital experiences at

Chitor and Jaipur. And he had certainly neither will nor power to

enlarge on his present turmoil of heart and mind.

Since his ride with Rose Arden, after the dinner-party, things seemed to

have taken a new turn. Their relation was no longer tentative. She

seemed tacitly to regard him as her chosen cavalier; and he, as tacitly,

fell in with the arrangement. No denying he felt flattered a little;

subjugated increasingly by a spell he could neither analyse nor resist,

because he had known nothing quite like it before. He was, in truth,

paying the penalty for those rare and beautiful years of early manhood

inspired by worship of his mother. For every virtue, every gift, the

gods exact a price. And he was paying it now. Deep down within him,

something tugged against that potent spell. Yet increasingly it

prevailed and lured him from his work. The vivid beings of his brain

were fading into bloodless unrealities; in which state he could do

nothing with them. Yet Broome's encouragement, and his father's critical

appreciation of fragments lately sent Home, had fired him to

fulfil--more than fulfil--their expectations. And now--here he was

tripped up again by his all-too-human capacity for emotion--as at

Jaipur.

The comparison jerked him. The two experiences, like the two women, had

almost nothing in common. The charm of Arúna--with its Eastern mingling

of the sensuous and spiritual--was a charm he intimately understood. It

combined a touch of the earth with a rarefied touch of the stars. In

Rose Arden, so far, he had discovered no touch of the stars. She

suggested, rather, a day in early summer, when warmth and fragrance and

colour permeate soul and body; keeping them delectably in thrall; wooing

the brain from irksome queries--why, whence, whither?

By now, the sheer fascination of her had entered in and saturated his

being to a degree that he vaguely resented. Always one face, one voice,

intruding on him unsought. No respite from thought of her, from desire

of her; the exquisite intolerable ache, at times, when she was present

with him; the still more intolerable ache when she was not.

The fluidity of his own dual nature, and recoil from the Arúna

temptation, inclined him peculiarly to idealise the clear-eyed,

self-poised Western qualities so diversely personified in Lance and this

compelling girl. Yet emphatically he did not love her. He knew the great

reality too well to delude himself on that score. Were these the

authentic signs of falling 'in love'? If so--in spite of rapturous

moments--it was a confoundedly uncomfortable state of being....

Where was she leading him--this beautiful, distracting girl, who said so

little, yet whose smiles and silences implied so much? There was no

forwardness or free-and-easiness about her; yet instinctively he

recognised her as the active agent in the whole affair. Twice, lately,

he had resolved not to go near her again; and both times he had failed

ignominiously--he who prided himself on control of unruly emotions...!

Had Lance, he wondered, made the same resolve and managed to keep

it--being Lance? Or was the Gymkhana momentarily the stronger magnet of

the two? He and Paul, with a Major in the Monmouths, were chief

organisers; and much practice was afoot at tent-pegging, bare-back

horsemanship, and the like. For a week Lance had scarcely been into

Lahore. When Roy pressed him, he said it was getting too hot for

afternoon dancing. But as he still affected far more violent forms of

exercise, that excuse was not particularly convincing.

By way of retort, he had rallied Roy on overdoing the tame-cat touch and

neglecting the important novel. And Roy--wincing at the truth of that

friendly flick--had replied no less truthfully: "Well, if it hangs fire,

old chap, you're the sinner. _You_ dug me out of Paradise by twitting me

with becoming an appendage to a pencil! Another month at Udaipur would

have nearly pulled me through it--in the rough, at least."

It was lightly spoken; but Lance had set his lips in a fashion Roy knew

well; and said no more.

Altogether, he seemed to have retired into a shell out of which he

refused to be drawn. They were friendly as ever, but distinctly less

intimate; and Roy felt vaguely responsible, yet powerless to put things

straight. For intimacy--in its essence a mutual impulse--cannot be

induced to order. If one spoke of Miss Arden, or doings in Lahore, Lance

would respond without enthusiasm, and unobtrusively change the subject.

Roy could only infer that his interest in the girl had never gone very

deep and had now fizzled out altogether. But he would have given a good

deal to feel sure that the fizzling out had no connection with his own

appearance on the scene. It bothered him to remember that, at first, in

an odd, repressed fashion Lance had seemed unmistakably keen. But if he

would persist in playing the Trappist monk, what the devil was a fellow

to do?

Even over the Gymkhana programme, there had been an undercurrent of

friction. Lance--in his new vein--had wanted to keep the women out of

it; while Roy--in his new vein--couldn't keep at least one of them out,

if he tried. In particular, both were keen about the Cockade Tournament:

a glorified version of fencing on horseback: the wire masks adorned with

a small coloured feather for plume. He was victor whose fencing-stick

detached his opponent's feather. The prize--Bachelor's Purse--had been

well subscribed for and supplemented by Gymkhana funds. So, on all

accounts, it was a popular event. There were twenty-two names down; and

Roy, in a romantic impulse, had proposed making a real joust of it; each

knight to wear a lady's favour; a Queen of Beauty and Love to be chosen

for the prize-giving, as in the days of chivalry.

Lance had rather hotly objected; and a few inveterate bachelors had

backed him up. But the bulk of men are sentimental at heart; none more

than the soldier. So Roy's idea had caught on, and the matter was

settled. There was little doubt who would be chosen for prize-giver; and

scarcely less doubt whose favour Roy would wear.

Desmond's flash of annoyance had been brief; but he had stipulated that

favours should not be compulsory. If they were, he for one would

'scratch.' This time he had a larger backing; and, amid a good deal of

chaff and laughter, had carried his point.

That open clash between them--slight though it was--had jarred Roy a

good deal. Lance, characteristically, had ignored the whole thing.

But not even the inner jar could blunt Roy's keen anticipation of the

whole affair. Miss Arden was his partner in one of the few mixed events.

He was to wear her favour for the Tournament--a Maréchal Mel rose; and,

infatuated as he was, he saw it for a guarantee of victory....

In view of that intoxicating possibility, nothing else mattered

inordinately, at the moment: though there reposed in his pocket a letter

from Dyán--with a Delhi post-mark--giving a detailed account of serious

trouble caused by the recent _hartal_:[23] all shops closed; tram-cars

and gharris held up by threatening crowds; helpless passengers forced to

proceed on foot in the blazing heat and dust; troops and police

violently assaulted; till a few rounds of buckshot cooled the ardour of

ignorant masses, doubtless worked up to concert pitch by wandering

agitators of the Chandranath persuasion.

"There were certain Swamis," he concluded, "trying to keep things

peaceful. But they ought to know resistance cannot be passive or

peaceful; and excitement without understanding is a fire difficult to

quench. I believe this explosion was premature; but there is lots more

gunpowder lying about, only waiting for the match. I am taking Arúna

into the Hills for a pilgrimage. It is possible Grandfather may come

too; we are hoping to start soon after the fifteenth, if things keep

quiet. Write to me, Roy, telling all you know. Lahore is a hotbed for

trouble; Amritsar, worse; but I hope your authorities are keeping well

on their guard."

From all Roy heard, there seemed good reason to believe they were;--in

so far as a Home policy of Government by concession would permit. But

well he knew that--in the East--if the ruling power discards action for

argument, and uses the sceptre for a walking-stick--things happen to men

and women and children on the spot. He also knew that, to England's

great good fortune, there were usually men on the spot who could be

relied on, in an emergency, to think and act and dare in accordance with

the high tradition of their race.

He hoped devoutly it might not come to that; but at the core of hope

lurked a flicker of fear....

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 23: Abstention as sign of mourning.]

CHAPTER V.

"Her best is bettered with a more delight."--SHAKSPERE.

The great Gymkhana was almost over. The last event--bare-back feats of

horsemanship--had been an exciting affair; a close contest between Lance

and Roy and an Indian Cavalry officer. But it was Roy who had carried

the day, by his daring and dexterity in the test of swooping down and

snatching a handkerchief from the ground at full gallop. The ovation he

received went to his head like champagne. But praise from Lance went to

his heart; for Lance, like himself, had been 'dead keen' on this

particular event. He had carried off a tent-pegging cup, however; and

appropriately won the V.C. race. So Roy considered he had a right to his

triumph; especially as the handkerchief in question had been proffered

by Miss Arden. It was reposing in his breast pocket now; and he had a

good mind not to part with it. He was feeling in the mood to dare,

simply for the excitement of the thing. He and she had won the Gretna

Green race--hands down. He further intended--for her honour and his own

glory--to come off victor in the Cockade Tournament, in spite of the

fact that fencing on horseback was one of Lance's specialities. He had

taught Roy in Mesopotamia, during those barren, plague-ridden stretches

of time when the war seemed hung up indefinitely and it took every ounce

of surplus optimism to keep going at all.

Roy's hope was that some other man might knock Lance out; or--as teams

would be decided by lot--that luck might cast them together. For the

ache of compunction was rather pronounced this afternoon; perhaps

because the good fellow's aloofness from the grand _shamiánah_[24] was

also rather pronounced, considering....

He seemed always to be either out in the open, directing events, or very

much engaged in the refreshment tent--an earthly Paradise, on this

blazing day of early April, to scores of dusty, thirsty, indefatigable

men.

Between events, as now, the place was thronged. Every moment, fresh

arrivals shouting for 'drinks.' Every moment the swish of a syphon, the

popping of corks; ginger-beer and lemonade for Indian officers, seated

just outside, and permitted by caste rules to refresh themselves

'English-fashion,' provided they drank from the pure source of the

bottle. Not a Sikh or Rajput of them all would have sullied his

caste-purity by drinking from the tumbler used by some admired Sahib,

for whom on service he would cheerfully lay down his life. Within the

tent were a few--very few--more advanced beings, who had discarded all

irksome restrictions and would sooner be shot than address a white man

as 'Sahib.' Such is India in transition; a welter of incongruities, of

shifting perilous uncertainties, of subterranean ferment beneath a

surface that still appears very much as it has always been.

Roy--observant and interested as usual--saw, in the brilliant gathering,

all the outward and visible signs of security, stability, power. Let

those signs be shaken never so little, thought he--and the heavens would

fall. But, in spite of grave news from Delhi--that might prove a prelude

to eruption--not a ripple stirred on the face of the waters. The grand

_shamiánah_ was thronged with lively groups of women and men in the

lightest of light attire. A British band was enlivening the interlude

with musical comedy airs. Stewards were striding about looking

important, issuing orders for the next event. And around them all--as

close as boundary flags and police would allow--thronged the solid mass

of onlookers: soldiers, sepoys, and sowars from every regiment in

cantonments; minor officials with their families; ponies and _saises_

and dogs without number; all wedged in by a sea of brown faces and

bobbing turbans, thousands of them twenty or thirty deep.

Roy's eyes, travelling from that vast outer ring to the crowded tent,

suddenly saw the whole scene as typical of Anglo-Indian life: the little

concentrated world of British men and women, pursuing their own ends,

magnificently unmindful of alien eyes--watching, speculating,

misunderstanding at every turn; the whole heterogeneous mass drawn and

held together by the love of hazard and sport, the spirit of competition

without strife that is the corner-stone of British character and the

British Empire.

He had just been talking to a C.I.D.[25] man, who had things to say

about subterranean rumblings that might have startled those laughing,

chaffing groups of men and women. Too vividly his imagination pictured

the scenes at Delhi, while his eyes scanned the formidable depths of

alien humanity hemming them in, outnumbering them by thousands to one.

What if all those friendly faces became suddenly hostile--if the

laughter and high-pitched talk changed to the roar of an angry crowd...?

He shook off the nightmare feeling, rating himself for a coward. Yet he

knew it was not fantastical, not even improbable; though most of the

people around him, till they saw with their own eyes, and heard with

their own ears, would not believe....

But thoughts so unsettling were out of place, in the midst of a Gymkhana

with the grand climax imminent. So--having washed the dust out of his

throat--he sauntered across to the other tent to snatch a few words with

Miss Arden and secure his rose. It had been given to one of the

'_kits_,' who would put it in water and produce it on demand. For the

affair of the favours was to be a private affair. Miss Arden, however,

in choosing a Maréchal Niel, tacitly avowed him her knight. Lance would

know. All their set would know. He supposed she realised that. She was

not an accidental kind of person. And she had a natural gift for

flattery of the delicate, indirect order.

No easy matter to get near her again, once you left her side. As usual,

she was surrounded by men; easily the Queen of Beauty and of Love. In

honour of that high compliment, she wore her loveliest race gown; soft

shades of blue and green skilfully blended; and a close-fitting hat

bewitchingly framed her face. Nearing the tent, Roy felt a sudden twinge

of apprehension. Where were they drifting to--he and she? Was he

prepared to bid her good-bye in a week or ten days, and possibly not set

eyes on her again? Would she let him go without a pang, and start afresh

with some chance-met fellow in Simla? The idea was detestable; and

yet...?

Half irritably he dismissed the intrusive thought. The glamour of her so

dazzled him that he could see nothing else clearly.

Perhaps that was why he failed to escape Mrs Hunter-Ranyard, who

skilfully annexed him in passing, and rained compliments on his

embarrassed head. Fine horsemanship was common enough in India; but

anything more superb----! Wide blue eyes and extravagant gesture

expressively filled the blank.

"My heart was in my mouth! That handkerchief trick is _so_ thrilling.

You all looked as if you _must_ have your brains knocked out the next

moment----"

"And if we had, I suppose the thrill would have gone one better!" Roy

wickedly suggested. He was annoyed at being delayed.

"You deserve 'yes' to that! But if I said what I _really_ thought, your

head would be turned. And it's quite sufficiently turned already!" She

beamed on him with arch significance, enjoying his impatience without a

tinge of malice. There was little of it in her; and the little there

was, she reserved for her own sex.

"I suppose it's a _dead_ secret ... whose favour you are going to wear?"

"That's the ruling," said Roy; but he felt his blood tingling, and hoped

to goodness it didn't show through.

"Well, I've got big bets on about guessing right; and the biggest bet's

on yours! Major Desmond's a good second."

"Oh, he bars the whole idea."

"I'm relieved to hear it. I was angelic enough to offer him mine,

thinking he might be feeling out in the cold!" (another arch look)

"and--he refused. My 'Happy Warrior' doesn't seem quite so happy as he

used to be----"

The light thrust struck home, but Roy ignored it. If Lance barred

wearing favours, he barred discussing Lance with women. Driven into a

corner, he managed somehow to escape, and hurried away in search of his

rose.

Mrs Ranyard, looking after him, with frankly affectionate concern, found

herself wondering--was he really quite so transparent as he seemed? That

queer visionary look in his eyes, now and then, suggested spiritual

depths, or heights, that might baffle even the all-appropriating Rose?

Did she seriously intend to appropriate him? There were vague rumours of

a title. But no one knew anything about him, really, except the two

Desmonds; and she would be a brave woman who tried to squeeze family

details out of them. The boy was too good for her; but still....

Roy, reappearing, felt idiotically convinced that every eye was on the

little spot of yellow in his button-hole that linked him publicly with

the girl who wore a cluster of its fellows at her belt.

Time was nearly up. She had moved to the front now, and was free of men,

standing very still, gazing intently....

Roy, following her gaze, saw Lance--actually in the tent--discussing

some detail with the Colonel.

"What makes her look at him like that?" he wondered; and it was as if

the tip of a red-hot needle touched his heart.

Next moment she saw him, and beckoned him with her eyes. He came,

instinctively obedient; and her welcoming glance included the rosebud.

"You found it?" she said, very low, mindful of feminine ears. "And--you

deserve it, after that marvellous exhibition. You went such a pace.

It--frightened me."

It frightened him, a little, the exceeding softness of her look and

tone; and she added, more softly still, "My handkerchief, please."

"_My_ handkerchief!" he retorted. "I won it fairly. You've admitted as

much."

"But it wasn't meant--for a prize."

"I risked something to win it anyway," said he, "and now----"

The blare of the megaphone--a poor substitute for heralds'

trumpets--called the knights of the wire-mask and fencing-stick into the

lists.

"Go in and win the rosebud too!" said she, when the shouting ceased.

"Keep cool. Don't lose your head--or your feather!"

He had lost his head already. She had seen to that. And turning to leave

her, he found Lance almost at his elbow.

"Come along, Roy," he said, an imperative note in his voice; and if

_his_ glance included the rosebud, it gave no sign.

As they neared the gathering group of combatants, he turned with one of

his quick looks.

"You're in luck, old man. Every inducement to come out top!" he

remarked, only half in joke. "I've none, except my own credit. But

you'll have a tough job if you knock up against _me_."

"Right you are," Roy answered, jarred by the look and tone more than the

words. "If you're so dead keen, I'll take you on."

After that, Roy hoped exceedingly that luck might cast them in the same

team.

But it fell out otherwise.

Lance drew red; Roy, blue. Lance and Major Devines, of the Monmouths,

were chosen as leaders. They were the only two on the ground who wore no

favours: and they fronted each other with smiles of approval, their

respective teams--ten a side--drawn up in two long lines; heads caged in

wire-masks, tufted, with curly feathers, red and blue; ponies champing

and pawing the air. Not precisely a picturesque array; but if the plumes

and trappings of chivalry were lacking, the spirit of it still nickered

within; and will continue to flicker, just so long as modern woman will

permit.

At the crack of a pistol they were off, full tilt; but there was no

shock of lance on shield, no crash and clang of armour that 'could be

heard at a mile's distance,' as in the days of Ivanhoe. There was only

the sharp rattle of fencing-sticks against each other and the masks, the

clatter of eighty-eight hooves on hard ground; a lively confusion of

horses and men, advancing, backing, 'turning on a sixpence' to meet a

sudden attack; voices, Indian and English, shouting or cheering; and

the intermittent call of the umpire declaring a player knocked out as

his feather fluttered into the dust. Clouds of dust enveloped them in a

shifting haze. They breathed dust. It gritted between their teeth. What

matter? They were having at each other in furious yet friendly combat;

and, being Englishmen, they were perfectly happy; keen to win, ready to

lose with a good grace and cheer the better man.

In none of them, perhaps, did the desire to win burn quite so fiercely

as in Lance and Roy. But more than ever, now, Roy shrank from a final

tussle between them. Surely there was one man of them all good enough to

put Lance out of court.

For a time Major Devines kept him occupied. While Roy accounted for two

red feathers, the well-matched pair were making a fine fight of it up

and down the field, to the tune of cheers and counter-cheers.

But it was the blue feather that fell; and Lance, swinging round,

charged into the melée--seven reds now, to six blue.

Twice, in the scrimmage, Roy came up against him, but managed to shift

ground, leaving another man to tackle him. Both times it was the blue

feather that fell. Steadily the numbers thinned. Roy's wrist and arm

were tiring, a trifle; but resolve to win burned fiercely as ever. By

now it was clear to all who were the two best men in the field, and

excitement rose as the numbers dwindled....

Four to three; blues leading. Two all. And at last--an empty dusty

arena; and they two alone in the midst, ringed in by thousands of faces,

thousands of eyes....

Till that moment, the spectators had simply not existed for Roy. Now, of

a sudden, they crowded in on him--tightly-wedged wall of

humanity--expectant, terrifying....

The two had drawn rein, facing each other; and for that mere moment Roy

felt as if his nerve was gone. A glance at the crowded tent, the gleam

of a blue-green figure leaning forward....

Then Lance's voice, low and peremptory, 'Come on.'

In the same breath he himself came on, with formidable élan. Their

sticks rattled sharply. Roy parried a high slicing stroke--only just in

time.

Thank God, he was himself again; so much himself that he was beset by a

sneaking desire to let Lance win. It was his weakness in games, just

when the goal seemed in sight. Tara used to scold him fiercely....

But there was Miss Arden, the rosebud....

And suddenly, startlingly, Roy became aware that for Lance this was no

game. He was fencing like a man inspired. There was more than mere skill

in his feints and shrewd blows; more in it than a feather.

Two cuts over the arm and shoulder, a good deal sharper than need be,

fairly roused Roy. Next moment they were literally fighting, at closest

range, for all they were worth, to the accompaniment of yell on yell,

cheer on cheer....

As the issue hung doubtful and excitement intensified, it became clear

that Lance was losing his temper. Roy, hurt and angry, tried to keep

cool. Against an antagonist so skilled and relentless, it was his only

chance. Their names were shouted. _"Shahbash[26] Sinkin, Sahib,"_ from

the men of Roy's old squadron; and from Lance's men, _"Desmin Sahib ki

jai!"_[27]

Twice Roy's slicing stroke almost came off--almost, not quite. The

maddening little feather still held its own; and Lance, by way of

rejoinder, caught him a blow on his mask that made his head ache for an

hour after.

Up went his arm to return the blow with interest. Lance, instead of

parrying, lunged--and the head of a yellow bud dropped in the dust.

At that Roy saw red. His lifted hand shook visibly; and with the

moment's loss of control went his last hope of victory....

Next instant his feather had joined the rosebud; the crowd were roaring

themselves hoarse; and Roy was riding off the ground--shorn of plume and

favour, furiously disappointed, and feeling a good deal more bruised

about the arms and shoulders than anything on earth would have induced

him to admit.

Of course he ought to go up and congratulate Lance; but just then it

seemed a physical impossibility. Mercifully he was surrounded and borne

off to the refreshment tent; sped on his way by a rousing ovation as he

passed the _shamiánah_.

Roy, following after, had his full share of praise, and a salvo of

applause from the main tent.

Saluting and looking round, he dared not meet Miss Arden's eye. Had he

won, she might have owned him. As it was, he had better keep his

distance. But the glimpse he got of her face startled him. It looked

curiously white and strained. His own imagination, perhaps. It was only

a flash. But it haunted him. He felt responsible. She had been so

radiantly sure....

Arrived in the other tent--feeling stupidly giddy and in pain--he sank

down on the first available chair. Friendly spirits ordered drinks, and

soothed him with compliments. A thundering good fight. To be so narrowly

beaten by Desmond was an achievement in itself; and so forth.

Lance and Paul, still surrounded, were at the other end of the long

table; and a very fair wedge of thirsty, perspiring manhood filled the

intervening space. Roy did not feel like stirring. He felt more like

drinking half a dozen 'pegs' in succession. But soon he was aware of a

move going on. The prizes, of course; and he had two to collect. By a

special decree, the Tournament prize would be given first. So he need

not hurry. The tent was emptying swiftly. He _must_ screw himself up to

congratulations....

The screwing was still in process when Lance crossed the tent--nearly

empty now--and stopped in front of him.

"See here, Roy--I apologise," he said hurriedly, in a low tone. "I lost

my temper. Not fair play----"

Instantly Roy was on his feet, shoulders squared, the last spark of

antagonism extinct.

"If it comes to that, I lost mine too," he admitted, and Lance smiled.

"You _did_! But--I began it." There was an instant of painful

hesitation, then, "It--it was an accident--the favour----"

"Oh, that's all right," Roy muttered, embarrassed and overcome.

"It's not all right. It put you off." Another pause. "Will you take half

the Purse?"

"Not I." Glory apart, he knew very well how badly Lance needed the

money. "It's yours. And you deserve it."

They both spoke low and rapidly, as if on a matter of business, for

there were still some men at the other end of the tent. But at that, to

Roy's amazement, Lance held out his hand.

"Thanks, old man. Shake hands--here, where the women can see us. You bet

... they twigged.... And they chatter so infernally.... Unfair--on Miss

Arden----"

Roy felt himself reddening. It was Lance all over--that chivalrous

impulse. So they shook hands publicly, to the astonishment of interested

_kitmutgars_, who had been betting freely, and were marvelling afresh at

the strange ways of Sahibs.

"I'll doctor your bruises to-night!" said Lance. "And I accept,

gratefully, _your_ share of the purse. She won't relish--giving it to

the wrong 'un." The last, barely audible, came out in a rush, with a

jerk of the head that Roy knew well. "Come along and see how prettily

she does it."

To Roy's infatuated eyes, she did it inimitably. Standing there, tall

and serene, in her pale-coloured gown and bewitching hat, instinct with

the mysterious authority of beauty, she handed the prize to Desmond with

a little gracious speech of congratulation, adding, "It was a close

fight; but you won it--fairly."

Roy started. Did Lance notice the lightest imaginable stress on the

word?

"Thanks very much," he said; and saluted, looking her straight in the

eyes.

Roy, watching intently, fancied he saw a ghost of a blush stir under the

even pallor of her skin. She had told him once, in joke, that she never

blushed; it was not one of her accomplishments. But for half a second

she came perilously near it; and although it enhanced her beauty

tenfold, it troubled Roy.

Then--as the cheering died down--he saw her turn to the Colonel, who was

supporting her, and heard her clear deliberate tones, that carried with

so little effort: "I think, Colonel Desmond, every one must agree that

the honours are almost equally divided----"

More applause; and Roy--scarcely crediting his ears or eyes--saw her

pick a rose from her cluster.

The moment speech was possible, she leaned forward, smiling frankly at

him before them all.

"Mr Sinclair, will you accept a mere token by way of consolation prize?

We are all agreed you put up a splendid fight; and it was no dishonour

to be defeated by--such an adversary."

Fresh clapping and shouting; while Roy--elated and overwhelmed--went

forward like a man walking in a dream.

It was a dream-woman who pinned the rosebud in his empty button-hole,

patting it into shape with the lightest touch of her finger-tips,

saying, "Well done indeed," and smiling at him again....

Without a word he saluted and walked away.

She had done it prettily, past question; and in a fashion all her own.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 24: Marquee tent.]

[Footnote 25: Criminal Investigation Department.]

[Footnote 26: Well done.]

[Footnote 27: Victory to Desmond Sahib.]

CHAPTER VI.

"Blood and brain and spirit, three--

Join for true felicity.

Are they parted, then expect

Someone sailing will be wrecked."

--GEORGE MEREDITH.

On the night after the Gymkhana the great little world of Lahore was

again disporting itself, with unabated vigour, in the pillared ballroom

of the Lawrence Hall. They could tell tales worth inditing, those

pillars and galleries that have witnessed all the major festivities of

Punjab Anglo-India--its loves and jealousies and high-hearted

courage--from the day of crinolines and whiskers, to this day of the

tooth-brush moustache, the retiring skirts and still more retiring

bodices of after-war economy. And there are those who believe they will

witness the revelry of Anglo-Indian generations yet to be.

Had Lance Desmond shared Roy's gift for visions, he might have seen, in

spirit, the ghosts of his mother and father, in the pride of their

youth, and that first legendary girl-wife, of whom Thea had once told

him all she knew, and whose grave he had seen in Kohat cemetery with a

queer mingling of pity and resentment in his heart. There should have

been no one except his own splendid mother--first, last, and all the

time.

But Lance, though no scoffer, had small intimacy with ghosts; and Roy's

frequented other regions; nor was he in the frame of mind to induce

spiritual visitations. Soul and body were enmeshed, as in a network of

sunbeams, holding him close to earth.

For weeks part of him had been fighting, subconsciously, against the

compelling power that is woman; now, consciously, he was alive to it,

swept along by it, as by a tidal wave. Since that amazing moment at the

prize-giving, all his repressed ferment had welled up and overflowed;

and when an imaginative, emotional nature loses grip on the reins, the

pace is apt to be headlong, the course perilous....

He had dined at the Eltons'--a lively party; chaff and laughter and

champagne; and Miss Arden--after yesterday's graciousness--in a

tantalising, elusive mood. But he had his dances secure--six out of

twenty, not to mention the cotillon, after supper, which they were to

lead. She was wearing what he called her 'Undine frock'--a clinging

affair, fringed profusely with silver and palest green, that suggested

to his fancy Undine emerging from the stream in a dripping garment of

water-weeds. Her arms and shoulders emerged from it a little too

noticeably for his taste; but to-night his critical brain was in

abeyance.

Look where he would, talk to whom he would, he was persistently,

distractingly aware of her; and she could not elude him the whole

evening long....

* * * * *

Supper was over. The cotillon itself was almost over; the maypole figure

adding a flutter of bright ribbons to the array of flags and bunting,

evening dresses, and uniforms. Twice, in the earlier figures, she had

chosen him; but this time, the chance issue of pairing by colours gave

her to Desmond. Roy saw a curious look pass between them. Then Lance put

his arm round her, and they danced without a break.

When it was over, Roy went in search of iced coffee. In a few seconds

those two appeared on the same errand, and merged themselves in a lively

group. Roy, irresistibly, followed suit; and when the music struck up,

Lance handed her over with a formal bow.

"Your partner, I think, old man. Thanks for the loan," he said; and his

smile was for Roy as he turned and walked leisurely away.

Roy looked after him, feeling pained and puzzled; the more so, because

Lance clearly had the whip-hand. It was she who seemed the less assured

of the two; and he caught himself wishing he possessed the power so to

upset her equanimity. Was it even remotely possible that--she cared

seriously, and Lance would not...?

"Brown studies aren't permitted in ballrooms, Mr Sinclair!" she rallied

him in her gentlest voice--and Lance was forgotten. "Come and tie an

extra big choc. on to my fishing-rod."

Roy disapproved of the chocolate figure, as derogatory to masculine

dignity. Six brief-skirted, briefer-bodiced girls stood on chairs, each

dangling a chocolate cream from a fishing-rod of bamboo and coloured

ribbon. Before them, on six cushions, knelt six men; heads tilted back,

bobbing this way and that, at the caprice of the angler; occasionally

losing balance, and half toppling over amid shouts and cheers.

How did that kind of fooling strike the '_kits_' and the Indian bandsman

up aloft, wondered Roy. A pity they never gave a thought to that side of

the picture. He determined not to be drawn in. Lance, he noticed,

studiously refrained. Miss Arden--having tantalised three aspirants--was

looking round for a fourth victim. Their eyes met--and he was done

for....

Directly his knee touched the cushion, the recoil came sharply--too

late. And she--as if aware of his reluctance--played him mercilessly,

smiling down on him with her astonishing hazel eyes....

Roy's patience and temper gave out. Tingling with mortification, he rose

and walked away, to be greeted with a volley of good-natured chaff.

He was followed by Lister, 'the R.E. boy,' who at once secured the

elusive bait, clearly by favour rather than skill. The rest had already

paired. The band struck up; and Roy, partnerless, stood looking on, the

film of the East over his face masking the clash of forces within. The

fool he was to have given way! And _this_--before them all--after

yesterday...!

His essential masculinity stood confounded; blind to the instinct of the

essential coquette--allurement by flight. He resolved to take no part in

the final figure--the mirror and handkerchief; would not even look at

her, lest she catch his eye.

Her choice fell on Hayes; and Roy--elaborately indifferent--carried

Lance off to the buffet for champagne cup. It was a thirsty evening; a

relief to be quit of the ballroom and get a breath of masculine fresh

air. The fencing-bout and its aftermath had consciously quickened his

feeling for Lance. In the fury of that fight they seemed to have worked

off the hidden friction of the past few weeks that had dimmed the steady

radiance of their friendship. It was as if a storm-cloud had burst and

the sun shone out again.

They said nothing intimate, nothing worthy of note. They were simply

content.

Yet, when music struck up, Roy was in a fever to be with her again.

Her welcoming smile revived his reckless mood. "Ours--_this_ time,

anyway," he said, in an odd repressed voice.

"Yes--ours."

Her answering look vanquished him utterly. As his arm encircled her, he

fancied she leaned ever so little towards him, as if admitting that she

too felt the thrill of coming together again. Fancy or no, it was like a

lighted match dropped in a powder magazine....

For Roy that single valse, out of scores they had danced together, was

an experience by itself.

While the music plays, a man encircles one woman and another, from

habit, without a flicker of emotion. But to-night volcanic forces in Roy

were rising like champagne when the cork begins to move. Never had he

been so disturbingly aware that he was holding her in his arms; that he

wanted tremendously to go on holding her when the music stopped. To this

danger-point he had been brought by the unconscious effect of delicate

approaches and strategic retreats. And the man who has most firmly kept

the cork on his emotions is often the most unaccountable when it flies

off....

The music ceased. They were merely partners again. He led her out into

starry darkness, velvet soft; very quiet and contained to the outer eye;

inwardly, of a sudden, afraid of himself, still more afraid of the

serenely beautiful girl at his side.

He knew perfectly well what he wanted to do; but not at all what he

wanted to say. For him, as his mother's son, marriage had a sacredness,

an apartness from random emotions, however overwhelming; and it went

against the grain to approach that supreme subject in his present fine

confusion of heart and body and brain.

They wandered on a little. Like himself, she seemed smitten dumb; and

with every moment of silence, he became more acutely aware of her. He

had discovered that this was one of her most potent spells. Never for

long could a man be unaware of her, of the fact that she was before

everything--a woman.

In a sense--how different!--it had been the same with Arúna. But with

Arúna it was primitive, instinctive. This exotic flower of Western

girlhood wielded her power with conscious, consummate skill....

Near a seat well away from the Hall she stopped. "We don't want any more

exercise, do we?" she said softly.

"I've had enough for the present," he answered. And they sat down.

Silence again. He didn't know what to say to her. He only craved

overwhelmingly to take her in his arms. Had she a glimmering

idea--sitting there, so close ... so alluring...?

And suddenly, to his immense relief, she spoke.

"It was splendid. A pity it's over. That's the litany of Anglo-India.

It's over. Change the scene. Shuffle the puppets--and begin again. I've

been doing it for six years----"

"And--it doesn't pall?" His voice sounded quite natural, quite composed,

which was also a relief.

"Pall?--You try it!" For the first time he detected a faint note of

bitterness. "But still--a cotillon's a cotillon!"--She seemed to pull

herself together.--"There's an exciting element in it that keeps its

freshness. And I flatter myself we carried it through brilliantly--you

and I." The pause before the linked pronouns gave him an odd little

thrill. "But--what put you off ... at the end?"

Her amazing directness took him aback. "I--oh, well--I thought ... one

way and another, you'd been having enough of me."

"That's not true!" She glanced at him sidelong. "You were vexed because

I chose the Lister boy. And he was all over himself, poor dear! As a

matter of fact, I'd meant to have you. If you'd only looked at me ...!

But you stared fiercely the other way. However, perhaps we've been

flagrant enough for to-night----"

"Flagrant--have we?"