Pulling a bedside chair near the window, he sat down and drew Roy close to him, taking his shoulders between his hands.

"Now then, old boy, tell me just exactly what happened--as man to man."

The appeal was irresistible. But--how could he----? The very change in his father's manner made the telling at once more difficult and more urgent.

"Daddy--it hurts too much. I don't know how to say it----" he faltered, and the blood tingled in his cheeks.

If Nevil Sinclair was not a stern father, neither was he a very demonstrative one. Even his closest relations were tinged with something of the artist's detachment, and innate respect for the individual even in embryo. But at sight of Roy's distress and delicacy of feeling, his heart melted in him. Without a word, he slipped an arm round the boy's shoulder and drew him closer still.

"That better, eh? You've got to pull it through, somehow," he said gently, so holding him that Roy could, if he chose, nestle against him.

He did choose. It might be babyish; but he hated telling: and it was a wee bit easier with his face hidden. So, in broken phrases and in a small voice that quivered with anger revived--he told.

While he was telling, his father said nothing; and when it was over, he still said nothing. He seemed to be looking out of the window, and Roy felt him draw one big breath.

"Have you got to whack me--now, Daddy?" he asked, still in his small voice.

His father's hand closed on his arm. "No. You were right, Roy," he said.

"I would have hit harder. Ill-mannered little beast! All the same----"

A pause. He, no less than Roy, found speech difficult. He had fancied himself, by now, inured to this kind of jar--so frequent in the early years of his daringly unconventional marriage. It seemed he was mistaken. He had been vaguely on edge all the afternoon. What young Joe had rudely blurted out, Mrs Bradley's manner had tacitly expressed. He had succeeded in smothering his own sensations, only to be confronted with the effect of it all on Roy--who must somehow be made to understand.

"The fact is, old man," he went on, trying to speak in his normal voice, "young Bradley and a good many of his betters spend years in India without coming to know very much about the real people over there.

You'll understand why when you're older. They all have Indians for servants, and they see Indians working in shops and villages, just like plenty of our people do here. But they don't often meet many of the other sort--like Mummy and Grandfather and Uncle Rama--except sometimes in England. And then--they make stupid mistakes--just because they don't know better. But they needn't be rude about it, like Joe; and I'm glad you punched him--hard."

"So'm I. Fearfully glad." He stood upright now, his head erect:--proud of his father's approval, and being treated as "man to man." "But, Daddy--what are we going to do ... about Mummy? I _do_ want her to know ... it was for her. But I _couldn't_ tell--what Joe said. Could you?"

Nevil shook his head.

"Then--what?"

"You leave it to me, Roy. I'll make things clear without repeating Joe's rude remarks. She'd have been up before this; but _I_ had to see you first--because of the whacking!" His eye twinkled. "She's longing to get at your bruises----"

"Oh nev' mind my bruises. They're all right now."

"And beautiful to behold!" He lightly touched the lump on Roy's cheek.

"I'd let her dab them, though. Women love fussing over us when we're hurt--especially if we've been fighting for them!"

"Yes--they do," Roy agreed gravely; and to his surprise, his father drew him close and kissed his forehead.

His mother did not keep him waiting long. First the quick flutter of her footsteps; then the door gently opened--and she flew to him, her sari blowing out in beautiful curves. Then he was in her arms, gathered into her silken softness and the faint scent of sandalwood; while her lips, light as b.u.t.terfly wings, caressed the bruise on his cheek.

"Oh, what a bad, wicked Sonling!" she murmured, gathering him close.

He loved her upside-down fashion of praise and endearment; never guessing its Eastern significance--to avert the watchfulness of jealous G.o.ds swift to spy out our dearest treasures, that hinder detachment, and s.n.a.t.c.h them from us. "Such a big rude boy--and you tried to kill him only because he did not understand your queer kind of mother! That you will find often, Roy; because it is not custom. Everywhere it is the same. For some kind of people not to be like custom is much worse than not to be good. And that boy has a mother too much like custom. Not surprising if he didn't understand."

"I made him though--I did," Roy exulted shamelessly, marvelling at his father's cleverness, wondering how much he had told. "I hammered hard.

And I'm not sorry a bit. Nor Daddy isn't either."

For answer she gave him a convulsive little squeeze--and felt the crackle of paper under his shirt. "Something hidden there! What is it, Sonling?" she asked with laughing eyes: and suddenly shyness overwhelmed him. For the moment he had forgotten his treasure; and now he was wondering if he could show it--even to her.

"It is Tara--I think it's rather a secret----" he began.

"But I may see?" Then as he still hesitated, she added with grave tenderness: "Only if you are wishing it, son of my heart. To-day--you are a man."

From his father that recognition had been sufficiently uplifting. And now--from her...! The subtle flattery of it and the deeper prompting of his own heart demolished his budding attempt at reserve.

"I am--truly," he said: and she, sitting where his father had sat, unfolded Tara's letter--and the bangle lay revealed.

Roy had not guessed how surprised she would be--and how pleased! She gave a little quick gasp and murmured something he could not catch. Then she looked at him with shining eyes, and her voice had its low serious note that stirred him like music.

"Now--you are Bracelet-Bound, my son. So young!"

Roy felt a throb of pride. It was clearly a fine thing to be.

"Must I give a 'broidered bodice'?"

"I will broider a bodice--the most beautiful; and you shall give it.

Remember, Roy, it is not a little matter. It is for always."

"Even when I'm a grown-up man?"

"Yes, even then. If she shall ask from you any service, you must not refuse--ever."

Roy wrinkled his forehead. He had forgotten that part of it. Tara might ask anything. You couldn't tell with girls. He had a moment of apprehension.

"But, Mummy, I don't think--Tara didn't mean all that. It's only--our sort of game of play----"

Unerringly she read his thoughts, and shook her head at him with smiling eyes, as when he made naughty faces about Aunt Jane.

"Too sacred thing for only game of play, Roy. By keeping the bracelet, you are bound." Her smile deepened. "You were not afraid of the big rude boy. Yet you are just _so_ much afraid--for Tara." She indicated the amount with the rose-pink tip of her smallest finger. "Tara--almost like sister--would never ask anything that could be wrong to do."

At this gentle rebuke he flushed and held his head a shade higher.

"I'm not afraid, Mummy. And I will keep the bracelet--and I _am_ bound."

"That is my brave son."

"She said--I am Prithvi Raj."

"She said true." Her hand caressed his hair. "Now you can run down and tell you are forgiven."

"You too, Mummy?"

"In a little time. Not just now. But see----" Her brows flew up. "I was coming to mend your poor bruises!"

"I haven't got any bruises."