Yet undeniably Desmond’s urgent plea influenced his own effort to ignore the still small voice within him, that protested against the whole affair.  At another time he would have taken it for a clear intimation from his mother; but she seemed to have lost, or deserted him, these days.  All he could firmly hold on to, at present, was his loyalty to Lance, his duty to Rose; and both seemed to point in the same direction.

It struck him as strange that she did not mention the wedding; and she had been so full of it that very first evening.  Once, when he casually asked if any fixtures were decided on yet, she had smiled and answered, “No; not yet.”  And some other topic had intervened.

It was only a degree less strange that she spoke so often of Lance, without attempting to disguise her admiration—­and something more.  And in himself—­strangest of all—­this surprising manifestation stirred no flicker of jealousy.  It seemed a link, rather, drawing, them nearer together.  She frankly encouraged talk of their school-days that involved fresh revealings of Lance at every turn:  talk that was anodyne or anguish according to his mood.

She also encouraged him to unearth his deserted novel and read her the opening chapters.  In Lahore, he had longed for that moment; now he feared lest it too sharply emphasise their inner apartness.  For the Indian atmosphere was strong in the book; and the Indian atmosphere jarred.  The effect of the riots had merely been repressed.  It still simmered underneath.

Only once she had broken out on the subject; and had been distinctly restive when he demurred at the injustice of sweeping indictments against the whole country, because a handful of extremists were trying to wreck the ship.  Personally he blamed England for virtually assisting in the process.  It had come near to an altercation—­very rare event with Rose; and it had left Roy feeling more unsettled than ever.

A few readings of his novel made him feel more uncomfortable still.  Like all true artists, he listened, as he read, with the mind of his audience; and intuitively, he felt her antagonism to the Indian element in his characters, his writing, his theme.

For three days he persisted.  Then he gave it up.

They were sitting in their nook; Rose leaning back, her eyes half closed, gazing across the valley.  In the middle of a flagrantly Indian chapter, he broke off:  determined to take it lightly; not to make a grievance of it:  equally determined she should hear no more.

For a few seconds she did not realise.  Then she turned and looked up at him.  “Well——?  Is that all?”

“Yes.  That’s all—­so far as you’re concerned!”

Her brows went up in the old beguiling way.  He felt her trying to hide her thought, and held up a warning finger.

“Now, don’t put it on!  Frankly—­isn’t she relieved?  Hasn’t she borne the infliction like a saint?”