“Daddy—­it hurts too much.  I don’t know how to say it——­” he faltered, and the blood tingled in his cheeks.

If Nevil Sinclair was not a stern father, neither was he a very demonstrative one.  Even his closest relations were tinged with something of the artist’s detachment, and innate respect for the individual even in embryo.  But at sight of Roy’s distress and delicacy of feeling, his heart melted in him.  Without a word, he slipped an arm round the boy’s shoulder and drew him closer still.

“That better, eh?  You’ve got to pull it through, somehow,” he said gently, so holding him that Roy could, if he chose, nestle against him.  He did choose.  It might be babyish; but he hated telling:  and it was a wee bit easier with his face hidden.  So, in broken phrases and in a small voice that quivered with anger revived—­he told.

While he was telling, his father said nothing; and when it was over, he still said nothing.  He seemed to be looking out of the window, and Roy felt him draw one big breath.

“Have you got to whack me—­now, Daddy?” he asked, still in his small voice.

His father’s hand closed on his arm.  “No.  You were right, Roy,” he said.  “I would have hit harder.  Ill-mannered little beast!  All the same——­”

A pause.  He, no less than Roy, found speech difficult.  He had fancied himself, by now, inured to this kind of jar—­so frequent in the early years of his daringly unconventional marriage.  It seemed he was mistaken.  He had been vaguely on edge all the afternoon.  What young Joe had rudely blurted out, Mrs Bradley’s manner had tacitly expressed.  He had succeeded in smothering his own sensations, only to be confronted with the effect of it all on Roy—­who must somehow be made to understand.

“The fact is, old man,” he went on, trying to speak in his normal voice, “young Bradley and a good many of his betters spend years in India without coming to know very much about the real people over there.  You’ll understand why when you’re older.  They all have Indians for servants, and they see Indians working in shops and villages, just like plenty of our people do here.  But they don’t often meet many of the other sort—­like Mummy and Grandfather and Uncle Rama—­except sometimes in England.  And then—­they make stupid mistakes—­just because they don’t know better.  But they needn’t be rude about it, like Joe; and I’m glad you punched him—­hard.”

“So’m I. Fearfully glad.”  He stood upright now, his head erect:—­proud of his father’s approval, and being treated as “man to man.”  “But, Daddy—­what are we going to do ... about Mummy?  I do want her to know ... it was for her.  But I couldn’t tell—­what Joe said.  Could you?”

Nevil shook his head.

“Then—­what?”

“You leave it to me, Roy.  I’ll make things clear without repeating Joe’s rude remarks.  She’d have been up before this; but I had to see you first—­because of the whacking!” His eye twinkled.  “She’s longing to get at your bruises——­”