Over his writing-table hung the original Antibes portrait—­life-size; Nevil’s payment for the high privilege of painting her; a privilege how reluctantly accorded none but himself had ever known.  And behold his reward:  her ever-visible presence—­the girl-child who had been altogether his own.

Hoofs at last—­and the remembered voice; deeper, more commanding; the embroidered curtain pushed aside.  Then—­Roy himself, broader, browner; his father’s smile in his eyes; and, permeating all, the spirit of his mother, clearly discernible to the man who had given it life.

He was on his feet now, an imposing figure, in loose white raiment and purple choga.  In India, he wisely discarded English dress, deeming it as unsuitable to the country as English political machinery.  Silent, he held out his arms and folded Roy in a close embrace:  then—­still silent—­stood away and considered him afresh.  Their mutual emotion affected them sensibly, like the presence of a third person, making them shy of each other, shy of themselves.

It was Sir Lakshman who spoke first.  “Roy, son of my Heart’s Delight, I have waited many years for this day.  It was the hidden wish of her heart.  And her spirit, though withdrawn, still works in our lives.  It is only so with those who love greatly, without base mixture of jealousy or greed.  They pass on—­yet they remain; untouched by death, like the lotus, that blooms in the water, but opens beyond its reach.”

Words and tone so stirred Roy that sudden tears filled his eyes.  And through the mist of his grief, dawned a vision of his mother’s face.  Blurred and tremulous, it hovered before him with a startling illusion of life; then—­he knew....

Without a word, he went over to the picture and stood before it, drowned fathoms deep....

A slight movement behind roused him; and with an effort he turned away.  “I’ve not seen a big one since—­since my last time at home,” he said simply.  “I’ve only two small ones out here.”

The carven face was not impassive now.  “After all, Dilkusha,[10] what matter pictures when you have—­herself?”

Roy started.  “It’s true.  I have—­herself.  How could you know?”

Five minutes later, he was sitting beside his grandfather on the deep divan, telling him all.

Before setting out, he would not have believed it possible.  But instinctively he knew himself in touch with a quality of love that matched his own; and the mere telling revived the marvel, the thrill of that strange and beautiful experience at Chitor....

Sir Lakshman had neither moved nor spoken throughout.  Now their eyes met in a look of deep understanding.

“I am very proud you told me, Roy.  It is not easy.”

“No.  I’ve not told any one else.  I couldn’t.  But just now—­something seemed to draw it all out of me.  I suppose—­something in you——­”

“Or perhaps—­herself!  It almost seemed—­she was here with us, while you talked.”