etual, unadulterated England might be just a trifle--dull. But, of
course, I know nothing about your home, Roy, except a vague rumour that
your father is a Baronet with a lovely place in Sussex."

"No--Surrey," said Roy, and his throat contracted. Clearly the moment
had come. "My father's not only a Baronet. He's a rather famous
artist--Sir Nevil Sinclair. Perhaps you've heard the name?"

She wrinkled her brows. "N-no.--You see, we do live in blinkers! What's
his line?"

"Mostly Indian subjects----"

"Oh, the Ramayana man? I remember--I _did_ see a lovely thing of his
before I came out here. But then----?" She stood still and drew away
from him. "One heard he had married...."

"Yes. He married a beautiful high-caste Indian girl," said Roy, low and
steadily. "My mother----"

"Your--_mother_----?"

He could scarcely see her face; but he felt all through him the shock of
the disclosure; realised, with a sudden furious resentment, that she was
seeing his adored mother simply as a stumbling-block....

It was as if a chasm had opened between them--a chasm as wide as the
East is from the West.

Those few seconds of eloquent silence seemed interminable. It was she
who spoke.

"Didn't it strike you that I had--the right to know this ... before...?"

The implied reproach smote him sharply; but how could he confess to
her--standing there in her queenly assurance--the impromptu nature of
last night's proceedings?

"Well I--I'm telling you now," he stammered. "Last night I
simply--didn't think. And before ... the fact is ... I _can't_ talk of
her, except to those who knew her ... who understand...."

"You mean--is she--not alive?"

"No. The War killed her--instead of killing _me_."

Her hand closed on his with a mute assurance of sympathy. If they could
only leave it so! But--her people...?

"You must try and talk of her--to me, Roy," she urged, gently but
inexorably. "Was it--out here?"

"No. In France. They came out for a visit, when I was six. I've known
nothing of India till now--except through her."

"But--since you came out ... hasn't it struck you that ... Anglo-Indians
feel rather strongly...?"

"I don't know--and I didn't care a rap what they felt," he flung out
with sudden warmth. "Now, of course--I do care. But ... to suppose _she_
could ... stand in my way, seems an insult to her. If _you_'re one of
the people who feel strongly, of course ... there's an end of it. You're
free."

"_Free?_ Roy--d