Rose winced at that, and drew in a steadying breath.  For now, at last, the cards were on the table.  She was committed to flat opposition or retreat—­an impasse she had skilfully avoided hitherto.  But for Roy’s sake she stood her ground.

“It was—­rather a jar when he told me,” she admitted, by way of concession.  “But truly, he is different—­if you’ll only listen, without fuming!  His mother’s a Rajput of the highest caste.  Her father educated her almost like an English girl.  She was only seventeen when she married Sir Nevil; and she lived altogether in England after that.  In everything but being her son, Roy is practically an Englishman.  You can’t class him with the kind of people we associate with—­the other word out here——­”

Very patiently and tactfully she put forward every redeeming argument in his favour—­without avail.  Mrs Elton—­broadly—­had the right on her side; and the gods had denied her the gift of discrimination.  She saw India as a vast, confused jumble of Rajahs and bunnias and servants and coolies—­all steeped in varying depths of dirt and dishonesty, greed and shameless ingratitude.  It did not occur to her that sharp distinctions of character, tradition, and culture underlay the more or less uniform tint of skin.  And beneath her instinctive antipathy, burned furious anger with Roy for placing her, by his deceitfulness (it must have been his) in the ironic position of having to repudiate the engagement she had announced with such eclat only three weeks ago....

The moment she had recovered her breath, she returned unshaken to the charge.

“That’s very fine talk, my dear, for two people in love.  But Roy’s a half-caste:  that’s flat.  You can’t wriggle away from the damning fact by splitting hairs about education and breeding.  Besides—­you only think of the man.  But are you prepared for your precious first baby to be as dark as a native?  It’s more than likely.  I know it for a fact——­”

“Really, Mother!  You’re a trifle previous.”  Rose was cool no longer; a slow, unwilling blush flooded her face.  Her mother had struck at her more shrewdly than she knew.

“Well, if you will be obstinate, it’s my duty to open your eyes; or, of course, I wouldn’t talk so to an unmarried girl.  There’s another thing—­any doctor will tell you—­a particular form of consumption carries off half the wretched children of these mixed marriages.  A mercy, perhaps; but think of it——!  Your own!  And you know perfectly well the moral deterioration——­”

“There’s none of that about Roy.”  Rose grew warmer still.  “And you know perfectly well most of it comes from the circumstances, the stigma, the type of parent.  But you can say what you please.  I’m of age.  I love him.  I intend to marry him.”

“Well, you won’t do it from my house.  I wash my hands of the whole affair.”

She rose, upon her ultimatum, a-quiver with righteous anger, even to the realistic cherries in her hat.  The girl rose also, outwardly composed, inwardly dismayed.