“Fear not for me, sister of my heart,” he wrote.  “Rejoice because I am dedicated to service of the Mother, that she may be released from political bondage and shine again in her ancient glory—­no longer exploited by foreigners, who imagine that with bricks and stones they can lock up Veda—­eternal truth!  The gods have spoken.  It is time.  Kali rises in the East, with her necklet of skulls—­Giants of evil she has slain.  It is she who speaks through the voice of the patriot:  ’Do not wall up your vision, like frogs in a well....  Rise above the Penal Code to the rarefied atmosphere of the Gita and consider the actions of heroic men.’

“You ask if I still love Roy?  Why not?  He is of our own blood and a very fine fellow.  But I don’t write now because he would not understand my fervour of soul.  So don’t you take all his opinions for gospel; like my grandfather’s, they are well meant, but obsolete.  If only you had courage, Aruna-ji, to accept the enlightened husband, who might not keep you in strict purdah, then we could work together for liberation of the Mother.  Sing Bande Mataram,[11] forty thousand brothers!  That is our battle-cry.  And one of those is your own fond brother—­Dyan Singh.”

Aruna had read and re-read that bewildering effusion till tears fell and blotted the words.  Could this be the same Dyan who had known and loved England even as she did?  His eloquence somehow failed to carry conviction.  To her, the soul of new India seemed like a book, full of contradictions, written in many strange languages, hard to read.  But behind that tangle of words beat the heart of Dyan—­the brother who was her all.

Still no address was given.  But Roy had declared the Delhi postmark sufficient clue.  Directly Dewali was over, he would go.  And, by every right impulse, she ought to be more glad than sad.  But the heart, like the tongue, can no man tame.  And sometimes his eagerness to go hurt her a little.  Was he thinking of Delhi down there—­or of her——?

The shadow had turned and was moving towards her.  There was a white splash of shirt-front, the glow of a cigarette.

Suddenly his pace quickened.  He had seen her.  Next moment he was standing under her balcony.  His low-pitched voice came distinctly to her ears.

“Good evening—­Juliet!  Quit your dreaming.  Come and be sociable down here.”

Delicious tremors ran through her.  Much too bold, going down in the dark.  But how to resist?

“I think—­better not,” she faltered, incipient surrender in her tone.  “You see—­not coming down to dinner ...  Mrs Leigh ...”

“Bother Mrs Leigh.  I’ve got a ripping inspiration about Delhi——­ Hurry up.  I’ll be by the steps.”

Then he had been thinking of Delhi.  But he wanted her now; and the note of command extinguished hesitation.  Slipping on a cloak, she reached the verandah without meeting a soul.  He put out a hand.  Purely on impulse she gave him her left one; and he conducted her down the steps with mock ceremony, as if leading her out to tread a measure to unheard strains of the viola and spinet.