“No, poor child; only England-infatuated.  She is unwise not taking this chance of an educated husband——­”

“And such a husband!” Roy struck in so sharply that Dyan stared open-mouthed.

“How the devil can you know?”

“And how the devil can you not know,” countered Roy, “when it’s your precious paragon—­Chandranath.”

He scored his point clean and true.  “Chandranath!” Dyan echoed blankly, staring into the fire.

Roy said nothing; simply let the fact sink in.  Then, having dealt the blow, he proffered a crumb of consolation, “Perhaps he prefers to keep quiet till he’s pulled it off.  But I warn you, if he persists, I shall put every feasible spoke in his wheel.”

Dyan faced him squarely.  “You seem very intimate with our affairs.  Who told you this?”

“Aruna—­herself.”

“You are also very intimate—­with her.”

“As she has lost her brother, her natural protector, I do what I can—­to make up.”

Dyan winced and stole a look at him.  “Why not make up for still greater lack—­and marry her yourself?”

It was he who hit the mark this time.  Roy’s blood tingled; but voice and eyes were under control.

“I’ve only been there a few weeks.  The question has not arisen.”

“Your true meaning is—­it could not arise.  They were glad enough for her service in England; but whatever her service, or her loving, she must not marry an Englishman, even with the blood of India in his veins.  That is our reward—­both——­”

It was the fierce bitter Dyan of that long ago afternoon in New College Lane.  But Roy was too angry on his own account to heed.  He rose abruptly.

“I’ll trouble you not to talk like that.”

Dyan rose also, confronting him.  “I must say what is in mind—­or go.  Better accept the fact—­it is useless to meet.”

“I refuse to accept the fact.”

“But—­there it is.  I only make you angry.  And you imply evil of the man—­I admire.”

He so plainly boggled over the words that Roy struck without hesitation.

“Dyan, tell me straight—­do you admire him?  Would you have Aruna marry him?”

“N—­no.  Impossible.  There is—­another kind of wife,” he blurted out, averting his eyes; but before Roy could speak, he had pulled himself together.  “However—­I mustn’t stay talking.  Good-night.”

Roy’s anger—­fierce but transient, always—­had faded.  “There are some ties you can’t break, Dyan, even with your Bande Mataram.  Come again soon.”

Impossible to resist the friendly tone.  “But,” he asked, “how long are you hanging about Delhi like this?”

“As long as I choose.”

“But—­why?”

“To see something of you, old chap.  It seems the only way—­unless I can persuade you to chuck all this poisonous vapouring, and come back to Jaipur with me.  Aruna’s waiting—­breaking her heart—­longing to see you....”