"It's just possible!" he returned, in the same vein. "I fancy Lance would understand."

"Oh--he _would_. And to-morrow--the night train? Can you be there?"

He looked doubtful. "It depends--how things go. And--I rather bar station partings."

"So do I. But still ... Mother's been clamouring for you to come up with us and guard the hairs of our heads! But I deftly squashed the idea."

"Bless you, darling!" He drew her close, and she leaned her cheek against him with a sigh, in which present content and prospective sadness were strangely mingled. It was in these gentle, pensive moods that Roy came near to loving her as he had dreamed of loving the girl he would make his wife.

"I'm still jealous of the Gilgit plan," she murmured. "And, of course, I wish you were coming up to-morrow--even more than Mother does! But at least I've the grace to be glad you're not--which is rather an advance for me!"

Their parting, if less pa.s.sionate, was more tender than usual; and Roy rode away with a distinct ache in his heart at thought of losing her; a nascent reluctance to make mountains out of molehills in respect of her and Lance....

Riding back along the Mall, he noticed absently an approaching horsewoman, and recognised--too late for escape--Mrs Hunter-Ranyard. By timely flight on Thursday, he had evaded her congratulations. Intuition told him she would say things that jarred. Now he flicked Suraj with the base intent of merely greeting her as he pa.s.sed.

But she was a woman of experience and resource. She beckoned him airily with her riding-crop.

"Mr Sinclair? What luck! I'm dying to hear how the 'March Past' went off. Did you get thunders of applause?"

"Oh, thunders. The Monsoon variety!"

"I saw you all in the distance, coming in from my early ride. You looked very imposing with your attendant aeroplanes!--May I?" She turned her pony's head without awaiting permission, and rode beside him at a foot's pace, clamouring for details.

He supplied them fluently, in the hope of heading her off personalities.

A vain hope: for personalities were her daily bread.

She took advantage of the first pause to ask, with an ineffable look: "Are you still feeling _very_ shy of being engaged? You bolted on Thursday. I hadn't a chance. And I'm rather _specially_ interested." The look became almost caressing. "Did it ever occur to your exquisite modesty, I wonder, that I rather wanted, you for _my_ cavalier. You seemed so young--in experience, that I thought a little innocuous education might be an advantage before you plunged. But she s.n.a.t.c.hed--oh, she did!--without seeming to lift an eyebrow, in her inimitable way. Very clever. In fact, she's been distinctly clever all round. She's eluded her 'coming man' on one side; and ructions over her soldier man on the other----"

"Look here--I'm engaged to her," Roy protested, trying not to be aware of a sick sensation inside. "And you know I hate that sort of talk----"

"I ought to, by this time!" She made tenderly apologetic eyes at him.

"But I'm afraid I'm incurable. Don't be angry, Sir Galahad! You've won the Kohinoor; and although you seem to live in the clouds, you've had the sense to make things _pukka_ straightaway. 'Understandings' and private engagements are the root of all evil!"

"I'm blest if I know what you're driving at!" he flashed out, his temper rising.

But she only laughed her tinkling laugh and shook her riding-whip at him.

"_Souvent femme varie!_ Have you ever heard that, you blessed innocent?

And the general impression is--there's already been one private engagement--if not more. I was trying to tell you that afternoon to save your poor fingers----"

"It's all rot--spiteful rot!" The pain of increasing conviction made Roy careless of his manners. "The women are jealous of her beauty, so they invent any tale that's likely to be swallowed----"

"Possibly, my dear boy. But I can't tell my neighbours to their faces that they lie! After all, if you win a beautiful girl of six-and-twenty you've got to swallow the fact, with a good grace, that there must have been others; and thank G.o.d you're IT--if not the only IT that ever was on land or sea!--After that maternal homily, allow me to congratulate you. I've already congratulated her, _de mon plein coeur_!"

"Thanks very much. More than I deserve!" said Roy, only half mollified.

"But I'm afraid I must hurry on now. Desmond asked me not to be late."

"Confound the women!" was his ungallant reflection, as he rode away.

Mrs Ranyard's tongue had virtually undone the effect of his peaceful two hours with Rose. After that--clash or no clash--he must have the thing out with Lance, at the first available moment.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 34: "Hai! Hai! George is dead."]

CHAPTER X.

"In you I most discern, in your brave spirit, Erect and certain, flashing deeds of light, A pure jet from the fountain of all Being; A scripture clearer than all else to read."

--J.C. SQUIRE.

Roy returned to an empty bungalow.

On inquiry, he learnt that the Major Sahib had gone over to see the Colonel Sahib; and Wazir Khan--Desmond's bearer--abused, in lurid terms, the b.a.s.t.a.r.d son of a pig who had dared to a.s.sault the first Sahib in creation.

Roy, sitting down at his table, pushed aside a half-written page of his novel, and his pen raced over the paper in a headlong letter to Jeffers:--an outlet, merely, for his pent-up sensations; and a salve to his conscience. He had neglected Jeffers lately, as well as his novel.

He had been demoralised, utterly, these last few weeks: and to-day, by way of crowning demoralisation, he felt by no means certain what the end would be--for himself; still less, for India.

The damaged Major Sahib--untroubled by animosity--appeared only just in time to change for Mess; his cheek unbecomingly plastered, his hand in a sling.

"Beastly nuisance; _Hukm hai_,"[35] he explained in response to Roy's glance of inquiry. "Collins says it's a bit inflamed. I've been confabbing with Paul over the deferred wedding. But, of course, there's no chance of things settling down, unless we declare martial law. The police are played out; and as for the impression we made this morning--the D.C.'s just telephoned in for a hundred British troops and armoured cars to picket and patrol bungalows in Lah.o.r.e. Seems he's received an authentic report that the city people are planning to rush civil lines, loot the bungalows, and a.s.sault our women--d.a.m.n them. So, by way of precaution, he has very wisely asked for troops.--Are they off--those two?"

"To-morrow night," said Roy, feeling so horribly constrained that the influx of Barnard and Meredith was, for once, almost a relief.

Then there was Mess; fresh speculations, fresh tales, and a certain amount of chaff over Desmond having 'stopped a brick'; Barnard, in satirical vein, regretting to report a b.l.o.o.d.y encounter: one casualty: enemy sprinkled with buckshot, retired according to plan.

Before the meal was over, Roy fancied he detected a change in Lance; his talk and laughter seemed a trifle strained; his lips set, now and then, as if he were in pain.

Later on he came up and remarked casually: "I'm not feeling very bright.

I think I'll turn in. Perhaps the sun touched me up a bit." Clearly Roy's face betrayed him; for Lance added in an imperative undertone: "_Don't_ look at me like that. I'm going to slip off quietly--not to worry Paul."

"Well, I'm going to slip off too," Roy retorted with decision. "I feel used up; and my beast of a bruise hurts like blazes."

"Drive me home, then," said Lance; and his changed tone, no less than the surprising request, told Roy he would be glad of his company.

They said little during the drive; Roy, because he felt vaguely anxious, and knew it would annoy Lance if he betrayed concern, or inquired after symptoms. It seemed a shame to worry the poor fellow in this state; but silence had now become impossible.

"Are you for bed, old man?" he asked when they got in.

"Rather not. I just felt a bit queer. Wanted to get away from them all and be quiet."

His normal manner eased Roy's anxiety a little. Without more ado, they settled into long veranda chairs and called for 'pegs.' The night was utterly still. A red distorted moon hung just above the tree-tops.

Yelling and spitting crowds seemed to belong to another world.

Lance leaned back in the shadow, the tip of his cigar glowing like a fierce planet. Roy sat forward, tense and purposeful: hating what he had to say; yet goaded by the knowledge that he could have no peace of mind till it was said.