always--had faded. "There are some
ties you can't break, Dyan, even with your Bande Mataram. Come again
soon."

Impossible to resist the friendly tone. "But," he asked, "how long are
you hanging about Delhi like this?"

"As long as I choose."

"But--why?"

"To see something of you, old chap. It seems the only way--unless I can
persuade you to chuck all this poisonous vapouring, and come back to
Jaipur with me. Aruna's waiting--breaking her heart--longing to see
you...."

He knew he was rushing his fences; but the mood was on; the chance too
good to lose.

Dyan's eyes lightened a moment. Then he shook his head. "I am too much
involved."

"You _will_ come, though, in the end," Roy said quietly. "I can wait.
Sunday, is it? And we'll bar politics--as we did in the good days. Don't
you want to hear of them all at Home?"

"Sometimes--yes. But perhaps--better not. You are a fine fellow,
Roy--even to quarrel with. Good-night." They shook hands warmly.

On the threshold, Dyan turned, hesitated; then--in a hurried
murmur--asked: "_Where_ is she--what's she doing now ... Tara?"

He was obviously unaware of having used her name: and Roy, though
startled, gave no sign.

"She's still in Serbia. She's been simply splendid. Head over ears in it
all from the start."--He paused--"Shall I tell her--when I write ...
about you?"

Dyan shrugged his shoulders. "Waste of ink and paper. It would not
interest her."

"It would. I know Tara. What you are doing now would hurt her--keenly."

"Tcha!" The sharp sound expressed sheer unbelief. It also expressed
pain. "Good-night," he added, for the third time; and went out--leaving
Roy electrified; a-tingle with the hope of success at last.

Tara was not forgotten; though Dyan had been trying to pretend she
was--even to himself. Ten chances to one, she was still at the core
everything; even his present incongruous activities....

Roy paced the room; his imagination alight; his own recoil from the
conjunction, overborne by immediate concern for Dyan. Unable to forget
her--who could?--he had thrust the pain of remembering into the dark
background of his mind; and there it remained--a hard knot of soreness
and bitterness--as Aruna had said. And all that bottled-up bitterness
had been vented against England--an unconscious symbol of Tara, desired
yet withheld; while the intensity of his thwarted passion sought and
found an outlet in fervent adoration of his country visualised as woma