“No—­Le Roy.  Some Norman ancestor.”

“The King!” She saluted, sitting upright, laughter and tenderness in her eyes.

At that, he slipped an arm round her, and pressed her close.  Then he plunged into fluent talk about the afternoon’s events, and his accepted offer of service, till Mrs Elton, resplendent in flame-coloured brocade, surged into the room.

It was a purely civil dinner; not Hayes, to Roy’s relief.  Directly it was over the bridge players disappeared; Mr Elton was called away—­an Indian gentleman to see him on urgent business; and they two, left alone again, wandered out into the verandah.

By now, her beauty and his possessive instinct had more or less righted things; and her nearness, in the rose-scented dark, rekindled his fervour of last night.

Without a word he turned and took her in his arms, kissing her again and again. “‘Rose of all roses!  Rose of all the world!’” he said in her ear.

Whereat, she kissed him of her own accord, at the same time lightly pressing him back.

“Have mercy—­a little!  If you crush roses too hard their petals drop off!”

“Darling—­I’m sorry!” The great word was out at last; and he felt quaintly relieved.

“You needn’t be!  It’s only—­you’re such a vehement lover.  And vehemence is said—­not to last!”

The words startled him.  “You try me.”

“How?  An extra long engagement?”

“N-no.  I wasn’t thinking of that.”

“Well, we’ve got to think, haven’t we?  To talk practical politics!”

“Rather not.  I bar politics—­practical or Utopian.”

She laughed.  There was happiness in her laugh, and tenderness and an undernote of triumph.

“You’re delicious!  So ardent, yet so absurdly detached from the dull plodding things that make up common life.  Come—­let’s stroll.  The verandah breathes heat like a benevolent dragon!”

They strolled in the cool darkness under drooping boughs, through which a star flickered here and there.  He refrained from putting an arm round her, and was rewarded by her slipping a hand under his elbow.

“Shall it be—­a Simla wedding?” she asked in her caressing voice.  “About the middle of the season?  June?”

“June?  Yes.  When I get back from Gilgit?”

“But—­my dear!  You’re not going to disappear for two whole months?”

“I’m afraid so.  I’m awfully sorry.  But I can’t go back on Lance.”

“Oh—­Lance!”

He heard her teeth click on the word.  Perhaps she had merely echoed it.

“Yes; a very old engagement.  And—­frankly—­I’m keen.”

“Oh—­very well”.  Her hand slipped from his arm.  “And when you’ve fulfilled your prior engagement, you can perhaps find time—­to marry me?”

“Darling—­don’t take it that way,” he pleaded.

“Well, I did suppose I was going to be a shade more important to you than—­your Lance.  But we won’t spoil things by squabbling.”