So, after scouting the Delhi idea as preposterous, she suddenly perceived there might be virtue in it—­for Aruna.  Possibly it would glorify him in her eyes; but it would remove the fatal charm of his presence; give her a chance to pull up before things had gone too far.  Whereat, being Thea, she spun round unashamedly, to Roy’s secret amusement and relief.  All the Desmond in her rose to the adventure of it.  A risk, of course; but there must be no question of failure; and success would justify all.  She was entirely at his service; discussed details by the hour; put him ‘on to Vinx’ for coaching in the general situation—­underground sedition; reformers, true and false; telling arguments for the reclaiming of Dyan Singh.

To crown all—­between genuine relief and genuine affection—­she impulsively kissed him on departure under Vincent’s very eyes.

“Just only to give you my blessing!” she explained, laughing and blushing like a girl at her own audacity.  “Words are the stupidest clumsy things.  I’m sure life would be happier and less complicated if we only had the sense to kiss more and talk less——!”

This—­in the presence of Aruna and her husband and her six-year-old son!

Roy, deeply moved and a little overcome, nodded assent, while Vincent took her by the arms and gently removed her from further temptation.

“Where you’d be, Madam, if talking was rationed——!”

“I’d take it out in kissing—­Sir!” she retorted unabashed; while Aruna glanced a little wistfully at Roy, who was fondling Terry and talking nonsense to Vernon.  For the boy adored him and was on the brink of tears.

But if he seemed unheeding, he was by no means unaware.  He was fighting his own battle in his own way; incidentally, he hoped, helping the girl to fight hers.  For he had shaken himself almost free of his delicious yet disturbing illusion, only to be confronted by a more profoundly disturbing reality.  Loyal to his promise, tacitly given, he had simply not connected her with the idea of marriage.  The queer thrill of her presence was for him quite another affair.  Not until that night of wandering in the moonlight had it struck him, with a faint shock, that she might be mistaking his friendliness for—­something more.  That contact with her had come at a critical moment for himself, was a detail he failed to realise.  Beyond the sudden bewildering sensations that prompted his headlong proposal to Tara, he had not felt seriously perturbed by girl or woman; and, in the past four years, life had been filled to overflowing with other things——­

That he should love Aruna, deeply and dearly, seemed as simple and natural, as loving Tara.  But to fall in love was a risk he had no right to run, either for himself or her.  Yet the risk had been run before he awoke to the fact.  And the events and emotions of Dewali night had drawn them irresistibly, dangerously close together.  For the racial ferment had been strong in him, as in her.  And the darkness, the subtle influence of his Indian dress—­her tears—­her danger!  How could any man, frankly loving her, not be carried a little out of himself?  That overmastering impulse to kiss her had startlingly revealed the true forces at work.