to Anglo-Indian life, these glimpses from the outskirts
were sufficiently illuminating. Once he was present in the crowd at a
big Gymkhana; and more than once he strolled through the Club gardens
where social Delhi pursued tennis-balls and shuttle-cocks--gravely, as
if life hung on the issue; or gaily, with gusts of laughter and chaff,
often noisier than need be. And he saw them all, now, from a new angle
of vision. Discreetly aloof, he observed, in passing, the complete
free-and-easiness of the modern maiden with her modern cavalier;
personalities flying; likewise legs and arms; a banter-wrangle interlude
over a tennis-racquet; flight and pursuit of the offending maiden,
punctuated with shrieks, culminating in collapse and undignified
surrender: while a pair of club peons--also discreetly aloof--exchanged
remarks whose import would have enraged the unsuspecting pair. Roy knew
very well they never gave the matter a thought. They were simply
'rotting' in the approved style of to-day. But, seen from the Eastern
standpoint, the trivial incident troubled him. It recalled a chance
remark of his grandfather's: "With only a little more decorum and
seriousness in their way of life out here, they could do far more to
promote good understanding socially between us all, than by making
premature 'reforms' or tilting at barriers arising from opposite kinds
of civilisation."

Here was matter for the novel--or novels--to be born of his
errantry:--the 'fruit of his life' that _she_ had so longed to bold in
her hands. Were she only at Home now, what letters-without-end he would
be pouring out to her! What letters he could have poured out to
Aruna--did conscience permit.

He allowed himself two, in the course of ten days; and the spirit moved
him, after long abstention, to indulge in a rambling screed to Tara
telling of his quest; revealing more than he quite realised of the inner
stress he was trying to ignore. The quest, he emphasised, was a private
affair, confided to her only, because he knew she would understand. It
hurt more than he cared to admit to feel how completely his father would
_not_ understand his present turmoil of heart and brain....

Isolated thus, with his hidden thwarted emotion, there resulted a
literary blossoming, the most spontaneous and satisfying since his slow
struggle up from the depths. Alone at night, and in the clear keen
dawns, he wrote and wrote and wrote, as a thirsty man drinks after a
desert march: