Impulsively he drew her forward and kissed her; and this time he kept an arm round her as they moved on.  He must speak—­soon.  But he wanted a natural opening, not to drag it in by the hair.

“And after the honeymoon—­Home?” she asked, following up her all-absorbing train of thought.

“Yes—­I think so.  It’s about time.”

She let out a small sigh of satisfaction.  “I’m glad it’s not India.  And yet—­the life out here gets a hold, like dram-drinking.  One feels as if perpetual, unadulterated England might be just a trifle—­dull.  But, of course, I know nothing about your home, Roy, except a vague rumour that your father is a Baronet with a lovely place in Sussex.”

“No—­Surrey,” said Roy, and his throat contracted.  Clearly the moment had come.  “My father’s not only a Baronet.  He’s a rather famous artist—­Sir Nevil Sinclair.  Perhaps you’ve heard the name?”

She wrinkled her brows.  “N-no.—­You see, we do live in blinkers!  What’s his line?”

“Mostly Indian subjects——­”

“Oh, the Ramayana man?  I remember—­I did see a lovely thing of his before I came out here.  But then——?” She stood still and drew away from him.  “One heard he had married....”

“Yes.  He married a beautiful high-caste Indian girl,” said Roy, low and steadily.  “My mother——­”

“Your—­mother——?”

He could scarcely see her face; but he felt all through him the shock of the disclosure; realised, with a sudden furious resentment, that she was seeing his adored mother simply as a stumbling-block....

It was as if a chasm had opened between them—­a chasm as wide as the East is from the West.

Those few seconds of eloquent silence seemed interminable.  It was she who spoke.

“Didn’t it strike you that I had—­the right to know this ... before...?”

The implied reproach smote him sharply; but how could he confess to her—­standing there in her queenly assurance—­the impromptu nature of last night’s proceedings?

“Well I—­I’m telling you now,” he stammered.  “Last night I simply—­didn’t think.  And before ... the fact is ...  I can’t talk of her, except to those who knew her ... who understand....”

“You mean—­is she—­not alive?”

“No.  The War killed her—­instead of killing me.”

Her hand closed on his with a mute assurance of sympathy.  If they could only leave it so!  But—­her people...?

“You must try and talk of her—­to me, Roy,” she urged, gently but inexorably.  “Was it—­out here?”

“No.  In France.  They came out for a visit, when I was six.  I’ve known nothing of India till now—­except through her.”

“But—­since you came out ... hasn’t it struck you that ...  Anglo-Indians feel rather strongly...?”

“I don’t know—­and I didn’t care a rap what they felt,” he flung out with sudden warmth.  “Now, of course—­I do care.  But ... to suppose she could ... stand in my way, seems an insult to her.  If you’re one of the people who feel strongly, of course ... there’s an end of it.  You’re free.”