“I did hammer hardest.  ’Pologise!”

The older boy mumbled something suspiciously like the fatal word:  a suspicion confirmed by Roy’s next remark:  “I’m sorry your blazer’s spoilt.  But you made me.”

And the elders, watching with amused approbation, had no inkling that the words were spoken not by Roy Sinclair but by Prithvi Raj.

The Enemy, twice humbled, answered nothing; and Roy,—­his dignity unimpaired by such trifles as a lump on his cheek, a dishevelled tie and one stocking curled lovingly round his ankle—­walked leisurely away, with never a glance in the direction of the “grown-ups,” who had no concern whatever with this—­the most important event of his life——­

Tara—­torn between wrath and admiration—­watched him go.  In her eyes he was a hero, a victim of injustice and the density of grown-ups.

She promptly released Prince, who bounded after his master.  She wanted to go too.  It was all her fault, bringing that horrid boy to tea.  She did hope Roy would explain things properly.  But boys were stupid sometimes and she wanted to make sure.  While her mother was tactfully suggesting a homeward move, she slipped up to Sir Nevil and insinuated a small hand into his.

“Uncle Nevil, do believe,” she whispered urgently.  “Truly it isn’t fair——­”

His quick frown warned her to say no more; but the pressure of his hand comforted her a little.

All the same she hated going home.  She hated ’that putrid boy’—­a forbidden adjective; but what else could you call him?  She was glad he would be gone the day after to-morrow.  She was even more glad his nose was bleeding and his eye bunged up and his important blazer all bloodied.  Girl though she was, there ran a fiercer strain in her than in Roy.

As they moved off, she had an inspiration.  She was given that way.

“Mummy darling,” she said in her small clear voice, “mayn’t I stay back a little and play with Chris. She’s so unhappy.  Alice could fetch me—­couldn’t she?  Please.”

The innocent request was underlined by an unmistakable glance through her lashes at Joe.  She wanted him to hear; and she didn’t care if he understood—­him and his beaky mother!  Clearly her own Mummy understood.  She was nibbling her lips, trying not to smile.

“Very well, dear,” she said.  “I’ll send Alice at half-past six.  Run along.”

Tara gave her hand a grateful little squeeze—­and ran.

She would have hated the “beaky mother” worse than ever could she have heard her remark to Lady Despard, when they were alone.

“Really, a most obstinate, ungoverned child.  His mother, of course—­a very pretty creature—­but what can you expect?  Natives always ruin boys.”

Lady Despard—­Lilamani Sinclair’s earliest champion and friend—­could be trusted to deal effectually with a remark of that quality.

As for Tara—­once “the creatures” were out of sight they were extinct.  All the embryo mother in her was centred on Roy.  It was a shame sending him to his room, like a naughty boy, when he was really a champion, a King-Arthur’s-Knight.  But if only he properly explained, Uncle Nevil would surely understand——­