The stern old Rajput smiled.  It did his heart good to hear the familiar slang phrases again.  “Whether it matters a damn—­as you say—­depends on whether he is the undesirable I have in mind.  Quite young; but much influence, and a bad record.  Mixed up with German agents, before the War, and the Ghadr party in California; arrested for seditious activity and deported:  but of course, on appeal, allowed to return.  Always the same tale.  Always the same result.  Worse mischief done.  And India—­the true India—­must be grateful for these mercies!  Sometimes I think the irony is too sharp between the true gifts given, unnoticed, by Englishmen working sincerely for the good of our people, and the false gifts proclaimed from the house-tops, filling loyal Indians with bewilderment and fear.  I have had letters from scores of these, because I am known to believe that loyal allegiance to British government gives India the best chance for peaceful progress she is likely to have for many generations.  And from every one comes the same cry, begging to be saved from this crazy nightmare of Home Rule, not understood and not desired except by those who invented it.  But what appeal is possible to those who stop their ears?  And all the time, by stealthy and open means, the poison of race-hatred is being poured into India’s veins——­”

“But, Grandfather—­what about the War—­and pulling together—­and all that?”

Sir Lakshman’s smile struck Roy as one of the saddest he had ever seen.  “Four years ago, my dear Boy, we all had many radiant illusions.  But this War has dragged on too long.  It is too far away.  For our Princes and warlike races it has had some reality.  For the rest it means mostly news in the papers and rumours in bazaars, high prices, and trouble about food.  No better soil for sowing evil seeds.  And friends of Germany are still working in India—­remember that!  While the loyal were fighting, these were talking, plotting, hindering:  and now they are waving, like a flag, the services of others, to gain their own ends, from which the loyal pray to be delivered!  Could irony be more complete?  Indian Princes can keep some cheek on these gentlemen.  But it is not always easy.  If this Chandranath should be the same man—­he is here, no doubt, for Dewali.  At sacred feasts they do most of their devil’s work.  Did you speak of connection with me?”

“No.  But he seemed to know about Aruna:  said you were English mad.”

Sir Lakshman frowned.  “English mad!  That is their jargon.  Too narrow to understand how I can deeply love both countries, while remaining as jealous for all true rights of my Motherland as any hot-head who swallows their fairy-tale of a Golden Age, and England as Raksha—­destroying demon!  By help of such inventions, they have deluded many fine young men, like my poor Dyan, who should be already married and working to all my place.  Such was my hope in sending him to Oxford.  And now—­see the result ...”