each other's eyes. Every
moment emphasised increasingly all that the detested verdict implied. No
more polo together. No more sharing of books and jokes and enthusiasms
and violent antipathies, to which both were prone. No more 'shoots' in
the Hills beyond Kashmir.

From the first of these they had lately returned--sick leave, in Roy's
case; and the programme was to be repeated next April, if they could
'wangle' first leave. Each knew the other was thinking of these things.
But they seemed entirely occupied in quenching their thirst, and their
disappointment, in deep draughts of sizzling ice-cool whisky-and-soda.
Moreover--ignominious, but true--when the tumblers were emptied, things
did begin to look a shade less blue. It became more possible to discuss
plans. And Desmond was feeling distinctly anxious on that score.

"You won't be shunted instanter," he remarked; and Roy smiled at the
relief in his tone.

"Next month, I suppose. We must make the most of these few weeks, old
man."

"And then--what?... Home?"

Roy did not answer at once. He was lying back again, staring out at the
respectable imitation of a lawn, at rose beds, carpeted with over-blown
mignonette, and a lone untidy tamarisk that flung a spiky shadow on the
grass. And the eye of his mind was picturing the loveliest lawn of his
acquaintance, with its noble twin beeches and a hammock slung
between--an empty casket; the jewel gone. It was picturing the
drawing-room; the restful simplicity of its cream and gold: but no dear
and lovely figure, in gold-flecked sari, lost in the great arm-chair.
Her window-seat in the studio--empty. No one in a 'mother-o'-pearl mood'
to come and tuck him up and exchange confidences, the last thing. His
father, also invalided out; his left coat sleeve half empty, where the
forearm had been removed.

"N--no," he said at last, still staring at the unblinking sunshine. "Not
Home. Not yet--anyway."

Then, having confessed, he turned and looked straight into the eyes of
his friend--the hazel-grey eyes he had so admired, as a small boy,
because of the way they darkened with anger or strong feeling. And he
admired them still. "A coward--am I? It's not a flattering conclusion.
But I suppose it's the cold truth."

"It hasn't struck _me_ that way." Desmond frankly returned his look.

"That's a mercy. But--if one's name happened to be Lance Desmond, one
would go--anyhow."

"I doubt it. The place must be simply alive--with memo