“Aruna’s the dearest thing,” she told him—­as well he knew.  “And I’m truly fond of her.  But sometimes I feel helpless.  They’re so hard to come at—­these gentle, inscrutable Hindu women.  Talk of English reserve!  However, I’m getting quite nimble at guessing and inferring; and I gather that your splendid old grandfather is rather pathetically helpless with that hive of hidden womenfolk and gurus.  Also that the old lady—­Mataji—­is a bit of a tartar.  Of course, having lost caste, makes the poor child’s home position almost impossible.  Yet she flatly refuses to go through their horrid rites of restitution.  And Miss Hammond—­our lady doctor at the hospital—­backs her up.”

“Well played, Miss Hammond!” quoth Roy; and remembering Aruna’s cheerful letters (no word of complications), all his sympathy went out to her.  Might not he—­related, yet free of grandmotherly tyranny—­somehow be able to help?  Too cruel that from her happy time in England there should spring such tragic issues.  And she was not a creature made for tragedy, but for laughter and love and ‘man’s delight.’  Yet, in the Hindu nature of things, this very matter of marriage was the crux of her troubles.

To the Power behind the curtain it spelt disgrace, that the eldest grand-daughter—­at the ripe age of twenty-two—­should be neither wife nor mother.  It would need a very advanced suitor to overlook that damning item.  Doubtless a large dowry would be demanded by way of compensation; and, before all, caste must be restored.  While Aruna remained obdurate, nothing could be definitely arranged; and her grandfather had not the heart to enforce his wife’s insistent demands.  But if the Indian woman’s horizon be limited, her shrewdness and intuitive knowledge are often amazing; and this formidable old lady—­skilled in the art of imposing her will on others—­knew herself a match for her husband’s evasions and Aruna’s flat rebellion.

She reckoned, however, without the daughter of Sir Theo Desmond, who, at this point, took action—­sudden and disconcerting.

“You see the child came regularly to my purdah parties,” she explained to Roy, who was impatient no longer, only absorbed.  “Sometimes I had her alone for reading and music; and it was heart-breaking to see her wilting away before my eyes.  So, at last, in desperation, I broke loose—­as Vinx politely puts it—­and asked searching questions, regardless of etiquette.  After all, the poor lamb has no mother.  And I never disobey an impulse of the heart.  I believe I was only in the nick of time.  It seemed the old tartar and her widowed sister-in-law were in touch with a possible husband.  So they had given the screw a fresh turn, assisted by the family guru.  He had just honoured them with a special visit, expecting to find the lost sheep regenerate and eager for his blessing.  Shocked at the tale of her obstinacy, he announced that, unless he heard otherwise within a week, he would put a nameless curse upon her; in which case her honourable grandmother would not allow the poor child to eat or sleep under her honourable roof.”