decided that he would speak first to his
father--the one doubtful element in the home circle. But habit and the
obsession of the moment proved too strong, when his mother came to 'tuck
him up,' as she had never failed to do since nursery days.

Seated on the edge of his bed, in the shaded light, she looked like some
rare, pale moth in her moon-coloured sari flecked and bordered with
gold; amber earrings and a rope of amber beads--his own gift; first
fruits of poetic earnings. The years between had simply ripened and
embellished her; rounded a little the oval of her cheek; lent an added
dignity to her grace of bearing and enriched her wisdom of the heart.

It was as he supposed. She had understood his thoughts long before. He
flung out his hand--a fine, nervous hand--and laid it on her knee.

"You're a miracle. I believe you know all about it."

"I believe--I do," she answered, letting her own hand rest on his;
moving her fingers, now and then, in the ghost of a caress:--an
endearing way she had. "You are wishing--to go out there?"

"Yes. I simply must. _You_ understand?"

She inclined her head and, for a moment, veiled her eyes. "I am proud.
But you cannot understand how difficult ... for us ... letting you go.
And Dad...."

She paused.

"You think he'll hate it--want to keep me here?"

"My darling--'hate' is too strong. He cares very much for all that makes
friendship between England and India. But--is it wonder if he cares more
for his own son? You will speak to him soon?"

"To-morrow. Unless--a word or two, first, from you----"

"No, not that!" She smiled at his old boyish faith in her. "Better to
keep me outside. You see--I _am_ India. So I am already too much in it
that way."

"You are in it up to the hilt!" he declared with sudden fervour:
and--his tongue unloosed--he poured out to her a measure of his pent up
feeling; how they had inspired him--she and his father; how he naturally
hoped they would back him up; and a good deal more that was for her
private ear alone....

Her immense capacity for listening, her eloquent silence and gentle
flashes of raillery, her occasional caress--all were balm to him in his
electrical mood.

Were ever two beings quite so perfectly in tune----?

Could he possibly leave her? Could he face the final wrench?

When at last she stooped to kiss him, the faint clear whiff of
sandalwood waked a hundred memories; and he held her close a long time,
her cheek against his