At that, he slipped an arm round her, and pressed her close. Then he plunged into fluent talk about the afternoon's events, and his accepted offer of service, till Mrs Elton, resplendent in flame-coloured brocade, surged into the room.

It was a purely civil dinner; not Hayes, to Roy's relief. Directly it was over the bridge players disappeared; Mr Elton was called away--an Indian gentleman to see him on urgent business; and they two, left alone again, wandered out into the verandah.

By now, her beauty and his possessive instinct had more or less righted things; and her nearness, in the rose-scented dark, rekindled his fervour of last night.

Without a word he turned and took her in his arms, kissing her again and again. "'Rose of all roses! Rose of all the world!'" he said in her ear.

Whereat, she kissed him of her own accord, at the same time lightly pressing him back.

"Have mercy--a little! If you crush roses too hard their petals drop off!"

"Darling--I'm sorry!" The great word was out at last; and he felt quaintly relieved.

"You needn't be! It's only--you're such a vehement lover. And vehemence is said--not to last!"

The words startled him. "You try me."

"How? An extra long engagement?"

"N-no. I wasn't thinking of that."

"Well, we've got to think, haven't we? To talk practical politics!"

"Rather not. I bar politics--practical or Utopian."

She laughed. There was happiness in her laugh, and tenderness and an undernote of triumph.

"You're delicious! So ardent, yet so absurdly detached from the dull plodding things that make up common life. Come--let's stroll. The verandah breathes heat like a benevolent dragon!"

They strolled in the cool darkness under drooping boughs, through which a star flickered here and there. He refrained from putting an arm round her, and was rewarded by her slipping a hand under his elbow.

"Shall it be--a Simla wedding?" she asked in her caressing voice. "About the middle of the season? June?"

"June? Yes. When I get back from Gilgit?"

"But--my dear! You're not going to disappear for two whole months?"

"I'm afraid so. I'm awfully sorry. But I can't go back on Lance."

"Oh--Lance!"

He heard her teeth click on the word. Perhaps she had merely echoed it.

"Yes; a very old engagement. And--frankly--I'm keen."

"Oh--very well". Her hand slipped from his arm. "And when you've fulfilled your _prior_ engagement, you can perhaps find time--to marry me?"

"Darling--don't take it that way," he pleaded.

"Well, I _did_ suppose I was going to be a shade more important to you than--your Lance. But we won't spoil things by squabbling."

Impulsively he drew her forward and kissed her; and this time he kept an arm round her as they moved on. He must speak--soon. But he wanted a natural opening, not to drag it in by the hair.

"And after the honeymoon--Home?" she asked, following up her all-absorbing train of thought.

"Yes--I think so. It's about time."

She let out a small sigh of satisfaction. "I'm glad it's not India. And yet--the life out here gets a hold, like dram-drinking. One feels as if perpetual, unadulterated England might be just a trifle--dull. But, of course, I know nothing about your home, Roy, except a vague rumour that your father is a Baronet with a lovely place in Suss.e.x."

"No--Surrey," said Roy, and his throat contracted. Clearly the moment had come. "My father's not only a Baronet. He's a rather famous artist--Sir Nevil Sinclair. Perhaps you've heard the name?"

She wrinkled her brows. "N-no.--You see, we do live in blinkers! What's his line?"

"Mostly Indian subjects----"

"Oh, the Ramayana man? I remember--I _did_ see a lovely thing of his before I came out here. But then----?" She stood still and drew away from him. "One heard he had married...."

"Yes. He married a beautiful high-caste Indian girl," said Roy, low and steadily. "My mother----"

"Your--_mother_----?"

He could scarcely see her face; but he felt all through him the shock of the disclosure; realised, with a sudden furious resentment, that she was seeing his adored mother simply as a stumbling-block....

It was as if a chasm had opened between them--a chasm as wide as the East is from the West.

Those few seconds of eloquent silence seemed interminable. It was she who spoke.

"Didn't it strike you that I had--the right to know this ... before...?"

The implied reproach smote him sharply; but how could he confess to her--standing there in her queenly a.s.surance--the impromptu nature of last night's proceedings?

"Well I--I'm telling you now," he stammered. "Last night I simply--didn't think. And before ... the fact is ... I _can't_ talk of her, except to those who knew her ... who understand...."

"You mean--is she--not alive?"

"No. The War killed her--instead of killing _me_."

Her hand closed on his with a mute a.s.surance of sympathy. If they could only leave it so! But--her people...?

"You must try and talk of her--to me, Roy," she urged, gently but inexorably. "Was it--out here?"

"No. In France. They came out for a visit, when I was six. I've known nothing of India till now--except through her."

"But--since you came out ... hasn't it struck you that ... Anglo-Indians feel rather strongly...?"

"I don't know--and I didn't care a rap what they felt," he flung out with sudden warmth. "Now, of course--I do care. But ... to suppose _she_ could ... stand in my way, seems an insult to her. If _you_'re one of the people who feel strongly, of course ... there's an end of it. You're free."

"_Free?_ Roy--don't you realise ... I care. You've made me care."