urage, Aruna-ji, to accept the enlightened husband, who might not keep
you in strict purdah, then we could work together for liberation of the
Mother. Sing _Bande Mataram_,[11] forty thousand brothers! That is our
battle-cry. And one of those is your own fond brother--Dyan Singh."

Aruna had read and re-read that bewildering effusion till tears fell and
blotted the words. Could this be the same Dyan who had known and loved
England even as she did? His eloquence somehow failed to carry
conviction. To her, the soul of new India seemed like a book, full of
contradictions, written in many strange languages, hard to read. But
behind that tangle of words beat the heart of Dyan--the brother who was
her all.

Still no address was given. But Roy had declared the Delhi postmark
sufficient clue. Directly Dewali was over, he would go. And, by every
right impulse, she ought to be more glad than sad. But the heart, like
the tongue, can no man tame. And sometimes his eagerness to go hurt her
a little. Was he thinking of Delhi down there--or of her----?

The shadow had turned and was moving towards her. There was a white
splash of shirt-front, the glow of a cigarette.

Suddenly his pace quickened. He had seen her. Next moment he was
standing under her balcony. His low-pitched voice came distinctly to her
ears.

"Good evening--Juliet! Quit your dreaming. Come and be sociable down
here."

Delicious tremors ran through her. Much too bold, going down in the
dark. But how to resist?

"I think--better not," she faltered, incipient surrender in her tone.
"You see--not coming down to dinner ... Mrs Leigh ..."

"Bother Mrs Leigh. I've got a ripping inspiration about Delhi---- Hurry
up. I'll be by the steps."

Then he _had_ been thinking of Delhi. But he wanted her now; and the
note of command extinguished hesitation. Slipping on a cloak, she
reached the verandah without meeting a soul. He put out a hand. Purely
on impulse she gave him her left one; and he conducted her down the
steps with mock ceremony, as if leading her out to tread a measure to
unheard strains of the viola and spinet.

Happiness ran like wine in her veins: and catching his mood she swept
him a curtsey, English fashion.

"Fit for the Queen's Drawing-room!" he applauded; and she smiled up at
him under her straight lashes. "Why didn't you appear at dinner? Is it a
whim--hiding your light under a bushel? Or do you get headaches and
heartaches working in the ward, an