Dyan wished him luck in a rather perfunctory tone, considering his vehemence of a moment earlier. All the fire seemed suddenly to have gone out of him.

They had just entered the college gate; and a few yards ahead, they caught sight of Lady Despard and Tara--the girl's hand linked through her mother's arm.

"Oh, I clean forgot," remarked Roy. "I said they could look in."

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: Own country.]

CHAPTER III.

"It is the spirit of the quest which helps. I am the slave of this spirit of the quest."--KABIR.

Roy's recherche little dinner proved an unqualified success. With sole and chicken saute, with trifle and savoury, he mutely pleaded his cause; feeling vaguely guilty, the while, of belittling his childhood's idol, whom he increasingly admired and loved. But this India business was tremendously important, and the dear old boy would never suspect----

Roy watched him savouring the chicken and peas; discussing the decay of falling in love, its reasons and remedies; and thought, for the hundredth time, what a splendid old boy he was; so big and breezy, nothing bookish or newspapery about him. Quite a masterpiece of modelling, on Nature's part; the breadth and bulk of him; the ma.s.sive head, with its thatch of tawny-grey hair that retreated up the sides of his forehead, making corners; the nose, rugged and full of character; the beard and the sea-blue eyes that gave him the sailor aspect Roy had so loved in nursery days. Now he appraised it consciously, with the artist's eye. A vigorous bust of his G.o.dfather was his acknowledged masterpiece, so far, in the modelling line, which he preferred to brush or pencil. But first and foremost, literature claimed him: poetry, essays, and the despised novel--truest and most plastic medium for interpreting man to man and race to race: the most entirely obvious medium, thought Roy, for promoting the cause he had at heart.

Though his brain was overflowing with the one subject, he was reserving it diplomatically for the more intimate atmosphere of port wine, coffee and cigars. Meantime they always had plenty to talk about, these two.

Broome held the unorthodox view that he probably had quite as much to learn from the young as they from him; and at the moment, the question whether Roy should take up literature in earnest was very much to the fore.

Once or twice during a pause, he caught the shrewd blue eye watching him from under s.h.a.ggy brows; but each kept his own counsel till the scout had removed all superfluities. Then Broome chose a cigar, sniffed it, and beheaded it.

"My particular weakness!" he remarked pensively, while Roy filled his gla.s.s. "What an attentive G.o.dson it is! And after this intriguing prelude--what of the main plot? India?"

Under a glance as direct as the question Roy reddened furiously. The 'dear old boy' had done more than suspect; he had seen through the whole show--the indignity of all others that youth can least abide.

At sight of his crestfallen countenance, Broome laughed outright. "Bear up, old man! Don't grudge me a fraction of the wits I live by. Weren't you trying to give me an inkling yesterday?"

Roy nodded, mollified a little. But his self-confidence wilted under the false start. "How about arm-chairs?" he remarked tentatively, very much engaged with a cigarette.

They removed their coffee-cups, and sipped once or twice in silence.

"I'm waiting," said Broome, encouragement in his tone.

But Roy still hesitated. "You see----" he temporised, "I'm so fearfully keen, I feel shy of ga.s.sing about it. Might seem to you mere soppy sentiment."

Broome's sailor eyes twinkled. "You pay me the compliment, my son, of treating me as if I were a fellow-undergrad! It's only the 'teens and the twenties of this very new century that are so mortally afraid of sentiment--the main factor in human happiness. If you had _not_ a strong sentiment for India, you would be unworthy of your mother. You want to go out there--is that the rub?"

"Yes. With Dyan."

"In what capacity?"

"A lover and a learner. Also--by way of--a budding author. I was hoping you might back me up with a few commissions for my preliminary stuff."

"You selected your G.o.dfather with unerring foresight! And preliminaries over--a book, or books, would be the end in view?"

"Yes--and other things. Whatever one can do--in a small way--to inspire a friendlier feeling all round; a clearer conviction that the destinies of England and India are humanly bound up together. I'm sure those cursed politics are responsible for most of the friction. It's art and literature, the emotional and spiritual forces that draw men together, isn't it, Jeffers? _You_ know that----"

He leaned forward, warming to his subject; the false start forgotten; shyness dispelled....

And, once started, none was more skilful than Broome in luring him on to fuller, unconscious self-revealing. He knew very well that, on this topic, and on many others, Roy could enlarge more freely to him than to his father. Youth is made that way. In his opinion, it was all to the good that Roy should aspire to use his double heritage, for the legitimate and n.o.ble purpose of interpreting--as far as might be--East to West, and West to East: not least, because he would probably learn a good deal more than he was qualified to teach. It was in the process of qualifying himself, by closer acquaintance with India, that the lurking danger reared its head. But some outlet there must be for the Eastern spirit in him; and his early efforts pointed clearly to literary expression, if Broome knew anything of the creative gift. Himself a devotee, he agreed with Lafcadio Hearne that 'a man may do quite as great a service to his country by writing a book as by winning a battle'; and just so much of these thoughts as seemed fit he imparted to Roy, who--in response to the last--glowed visibly.

"Priceless old Jeffers! I knew I could reckon on you to back me up--and buck me up! Of course one will be hugely encouraged by the bleating of the practical crowd--Aunt Jane and Co. '_Why_ waste your time writing silly novels?' And if you try to explain that novels _have_ a real function, they merely think _you've_ got a swelled head."

"Never mind, Roy. 'The quest is a n.o.ble one and the hope great.' And we scribblers have our glorious compensations. As for Aunt Jane----" He looked very straight at her nephew--and winked deliberately.

"Oh, of course--she's _the_ unlimited limit," Roy agreed without shame.

"I suppose if Dad plays up, she'll give him h.e.l.l?"

"Good measure, pressed down.--By the way--have you spoken to _him_ yet of all this----?"

"No. Mother probably guesses. But you're the first. I made sure _you'd_ understand----"

"You feel doubtful--about Father?"

"M-yes. I don't quite know why."

Broome was silent a moment. "After all--it's natural. Put yourself in his place, Roy.--He sees India taking a stronger hold of you each year.

He knows you've a deal of your mother and grandfather in your make-up.

He may very well be afraid of the magnet proving too strong at close quarters. And I suspect he's jealous--for England. He'd like to see your soul centred on Bramleigh Beeches: and I more than suspect they'd both prefer to keep you nearer home."

Roy looked distressed. "Hard lines. I hadn't got to that yet. But it wouldn't be for always. And--there's George and Jerry sprouting up."

"I gather that George and Jerry are not precisely--Roy----"

"Jeffers--you old sinner! I can't flatter myself----!"

"Don't be blatantly British, Roy! You can flatter yourself--you know as well as I do!"

"I know it's undiplomatic to contradict my elders!" countered Roy, lunging after pipe and pouch.

"Especially convenient G.o.dfathers, with press connections?"

Roy fronted him squarely, laughter lurking in his eyes. "Are you _going_ to be convenient--that's the rub! _Will_ you give Dad a notion I may turn out something decent when I've sc.r.a.ped up some crumbs of knowledge----?"

Broome leaned forward and laid a large rea.s.suring hand on his knee.

"Trust me to pull it off, old man--provided Mother approves. We couldn't press it against _her_ wish--either of us."

"No--we couldn't." There was a new gravity in Roy's tone. "As I said, she probably knows all about it. That's her way. She understandeth one's thoughts long before." The last in a lower tone--his eyes dwelling on her portrait above the mantelpiece: the one in the studio window-seat.

And Broome thought: "With all his brains, the man's hardly astir in him yet; and the boy's still in love with her. This notion may be an unconscious outlet. A healthy one--if Nevil can be got to see it that way."

After a perceptible pause, he said quietly: "Remember, Roy, just because she's unique, she can't be taken as representative. She naturally stands for India in your eyes. But no country can produce beings of her quality by the score----"

"I suppose not." Roy reluctantly shifted his gaze. "But she does represent what's best in the Indian spirit: the spirit that people over here might take more pains to understand."