she had smiled and answered,
"No; not yet." And some other topic had intervened.

It was only a degree less strange that she spoke so often of Lance,
without attempting to disguise her admiration--and something more. And
in himself--strangest of all--this surprising manifestation stirred no
flicker of jealousy. It seemed a link, rather, drawing, them nearer
together. She frankly encouraged talk of their school-days that involved
fresh revealings of Lance at every turn: talk that was anodyne or
anguish according to his mood.

She also encouraged him to unearth his deserted novel and read her the
opening chapters. In Lahore, he had longed for that moment; now he
feared lest it too sharply emphasise their inner apartness. For the
Indian atmosphere was strong in the book; and the Indian atmosphere
jarred. The effect of the riots had merely been repressed. It still
simmered underneath.

Only once she had broken out on the subject; and had been distinctly
restive when he demurred at the injustice of sweeping indictments
against the whole country, because a handful of extremists were trying
to wreck the ship. Personally he blamed England for virtually assisting
in the process. It had come near to an altercation--very rare event with
Rose; and it had left Roy feeling more unsettled than ever.

A few readings of his novel made him feel more uncomfortable still. Like
all true artists, he listened, as he read, with the mind of his
audience; and intuitively, he felt her antagonism to the Indian element
in his characters, his writing, his theme.

For three days he persisted. Then he gave it up.

They were sitting in their nook; Rose leaning back, her eyes half
closed, gazing across the valley. In the middle of a flagrantly Indian
chapter, he broke off: determined to take it lightly; not to make a
grievance of it: equally determined she should hear no more.

For a few seconds she did not realise. Then she turned and looked up at
him. "Well----? Is that all?"

"Yes. That's all--so far as you're concerned!"

Her brows went up in the old beguiling way. He felt her trying to hide
her thought, and held up a warning finger.

"Now, don't put it on! Frankly--isn't she relieved? Hasn't she borne the
infliction like a saint?"

The blood stirred visibly under her pallor. "It was _not_ an infliction.
Your writing's wonderful. Quite uncanny--the way you get inside people
and things. If there's more--go on."

"There's a lot more. Bu