The shock of Roy’s revelation had upset her a good deal more than she dared let him guess.  And the effect did not pass—­in spite of determined efforts to be unaware of it.  She knew, now, that her vaunted tolerance sprang chiefly from having ignored the whole subject.  Half-castes she instinctively despised.  For India and the Indians she had little real sympathy; and the rising tide of unrest, the increasing antagonism, had sharpened her negative attitude to a positive dislike and distrust, acutely intensified since that evening at Anarkalli, when the sight of Lance and her stepfather, sitting there at the mercy of any chance-flung missile, had stirred the slumbering passion in her to fury.  For one bewildering moment she had scarcely been able to endure Roy’s touch or look, because he was even remotely linked with those creatures, who mouthed and yelled and would have murdered them all without compunction.

The impression of those few nerve-wracking days had struck deep.  Yet, in spite of all, Roy’s hold on her was strong; the stronger perhaps because she had been aware of his inner resistance, and had never felt quite sure of him.  She did not feel fundamentally sure of him, even now.  His letters had been few and brief; heart-broken, naturally; yet scarcely the letters of an ardent lover.  The longest of the four had given her a poignant picture of Lance’s funeral; almost as if he knew, and had written with intent to hurt her.  In addition to half the British officers of the station, the cemetery had been thronged with the men of his squadron, Sikhs and Pathans—­a form of homage very rare in India.  Many of them had cried like children; and for himself, Roy confessed, it had broken him all to bits.  He hardly knew how to write of it; but he felt she would care to know.

She cared so intensely that, for the moment, she had almost hated him for probing so deep, for stamping on her memory a picture that would not fade.

His next letter had been no more than half a sheet.  That was three days ago.  Another was overdue; and the post was overdue also.

Ah—­at last!  A flash of scarlet in the verandah and Fazl Ali presenting an envelope on a salver, as though she were a goddess and the letter an offering at her shrine.

It was a shade thicker than usual.  Well, it ought to be.  She had been very patient with his brevity.  This time it seemed he had something to say.

Her heart stirred perceptibly as she opened it and read:—­

     “DEAREST GIRL,—­

“I’m afraid my letters have been very poor things.  Part of the reason you know and understand—­as far as any one can.  I’m still dazed.  Everything’s out of perspective.  I suppose I shall take it in some day.

“But there’s another reason—­connected with him.  Perhaps you can guess.  I’ve been puzzled all along about you two.  And now I know.  I wonder—­does that hurt you?  It hurts me horribly.  I need