“Congrats, old man”, he said at last, in a level tone.  “I got the impression ... a few weeks ago, you were not ready for the plunge.  But you’ve done it—­in record time.”  A pause.  Roy sat there tongue-tied—­unreasonably angry with himself and Rose.  “Why ’as good as...?’ Is it to be ... not official?”

“Only till to-morrow.  You see, it all came ... rather in a rush.  She thought ... we thought ... better talk things over first between ourselves.  After all....”

“Yes—­after all,” Lance took him up.  “You do know a precious lot about each other!  How much ... does she know ... about you?”

“Oh, my dancing and riding, my temperament and the colour of my eyes—­four very important items!” said Roy, affecting a lightness he was far from feeling.

Lance ignored his untimely flippancy.  “Have you ever ... happened to mention ... your mother?”

“Not yet.  Why——?” The question startled him.

“It occurred to me.  I merely wondered——­”

“Well, of course, I shall—­to-night.”

Lance nodded, pensively fingered his riding-crop, and remarked, “D’you imagine now she’s going to let you bury yourself up Gilgit way—­with me?  Besides—­you’ll hardly care ... shall we call it ’off’?”

“Well you are——!  Of course I’ll care.  I’m damned if we call it ‘off.’”

At that the mask vanished from Desmond’s face.  His hand closed vigorously on Roy’s shoulder.  “Good man,” he said in his normal voice.  “I’ll count on you.  That’s a bargain.”  Their eyes met in the glass, and a look of understanding passed between them.  “Feeling a bit above yourself, are you?”

Roy drew a great breath.  “It’s amazing.  I don’t yet seem to take it in.”

“Oh—­you will.”  The hand closed again on his shoulder.  “Now I’ll clear out.  Time you were clothed and in your right mind.”

And they had not so much as mentioned her name!

* * * * *

But even when clothed, Roy did not feel altogether in his right mind.  He was downright thankful to be helping Lance with some sports for the men, designed to counteract the infectious state of ferment prevailing in the city, on account of to-morrow’s deferred hartal.  For the voice of Mahatma Ghandi—­saint, fanatic, revolutionary, which you will—­had gone forth, proclaiming the sixth of April a day of universal mourning and non-co-operation, by way of protest against the Rowlatt Act.  For that sane measure—­framed to safeguard India from her wilder elements—­had been twisted, by skilled weavers of words, into a plot against the liberty of the individual.  And Ghandi must be obeyed.

Flamboyant posters in the city bewailed ’the mountain of calamity about to fall on the Motherland’, and consigned their souls to hell who failed, that day, to close their business and keep a fast.  To spiritual threats were added terrorism and coercion, that paralysis of the city might be complete.