“Yes—­I’ve noticed.  It’s a pity....”  Words simply would not come, on this theme of all others.  Was she indirectly ... telling him ...?

“And you disapprove—­tooth and nail?” she queried gently.  “I hoped you were different.  You don’t know how tired we are of eternal disapproval from people who simply know nothing—­nothing——­”

“But I don’t disapprove,” he blurted out vehemently.  “It always strikes me as a rather middle-class, puritanical attitude.  I only think—­it’s a thousand pities to take the bloom off ... the big thing—­the real thing, by playing at it (you can see they do) like lawn tennis, just to pass the time——­”

“Well, Heaven knows, we’ve got to pass the time out here—­somehow!” she retorted, with a sudden warmth that startled him:  it was so unlike her.  “All very fine for people at home to turn up superior noses at us; to say we live in blinkers, that we’ve no intellectual pursuits, no interest in ‘this wonderful country.’  I confess, to some of us, India and its people are holy terrors.  As for art and music and theatres—­where are they, except what we make for ourselves, in our indefatigable, amateurish way.  Can’t you see—­you, with your imaginative insight—­that we have virtually nothing but each other?  If we spent our days bowing and scraping and dining and dancing with due decorum, there’d be a boom in suicides and the people in clover at Home would placidly wonder why——?”

“But do listen.  I’m not blaming—­any of you,” he exclaimed, distracted by her complete misreading of his mood.

“Well, you’re criticising—­in your heart.  And your opinion’s worth something—­to some of us.  Even if we do occasionally—­play at being in love, there’s always the offchance it may turn out to be ... the real thing.”  She drew an audible breath and added, in her lighter vein:  “You know, you’re a very fair hand at it yourself—­in your restrained, fakirish fashion——­”

“But I don’t—­I’m not——­” he stammered desperately.  “And why d’you call me a fakir?  It’s not the first time.  And it’s not true.  I believe in life—­and the fulness of life.”

“I’m glad.  I’m not keen on fakirs.  But I only meant—­one can’t picture you playing round, the way heaps of men do with girls ... who allow them ...”

“No.  That’s true.  I never——­”

“What—­never?  Or is it ’hardly ever’?”

She leaned a shade nearer, her beautiful pale face etherealised by starshine.  And that infinitesimal movement, her low tone, the sheer magnetism of her, swept him from his moorings.  Words low and passionate came all in a rush.

“What are, you doing with me?  Why d’you tantalise me.  Whether you’re there or not there, your face haunts me—­your voice.  It may be play for you—­it isn’t for me——­”

“I’ve never said—­I’ve never implied—­it was play ... for me——­”

This time perceptibly she leaned nearer, mute confession in her look, her tone; and delicate fire ran in his veins....