No Tara waiting now.  No point of safety, except a very prosaic dak bungalow and good old Azim, who would fuss like the devil if rain came on and he got a wetting.

Ah—­here it was, at last!  Buckets of it.  Lashing his face, running down his neck, saturating him below his flapping burberry.  Buffeted mercilessly, he broke into a trot.  Thunder and lightning were less virulent now; and he found himself actually enjoying it all.

Tired——?  Not a bit.  The miasma of depression seemed blown clean away by the horseplay of the elements.  He had been within an ace of taking unwarranted liberties with Nature.  Now she retaliated by taking liberties with him; and her buffeting proved a finer restorative than all the drugs in creation.  Electricity, her ‘fierce angel of the air,’ set every nerve tingling.  A queer sensation:  but it was life.  And he had been feeling more than half dead....

Azim Khan, however—­being innocent of ’nerves’—­took quite another view of the matter.

Arrived at the point of safety, Roy found a log fire burning; and a brazier alight under a contrivance like a huge cane hen-coop, for drying his clothes.  Vainly protesting, he was made to change every garment; was installed by the fire, with steaming brandy-and-water at his elbow, and lemons and sugar—­and letters ... quite a little pile of them.

“Belaiti dak, Hazur,"[40] Azim Khan superfluously informed him, with an air of personal pride in the whole bundobast—­including the timely arrival of the English mail.

There were parcels also—­a biggish one, from his father; another from Jeffers, obviously a book.  And suddenly it dawned on him—­this must be the tenth of June.  Yesterday was his twenty-sixth birthday; and he had never thought of it; never realised the date!  But they had thought of it weeks ahead:  while he—­graceless and ungrateful—­had deemed himself half forgotten.

He ran the envelopes through his fingers—­Tiny, Tara. (His heart jerked.  Was it congratulations?  He had never felt he could write of it to her.) Aruna; a black-edged one from Thea; and—­his heart jerked in quite another fashion—­Rose!

Amazing!  What did it mean?  She wasn’t—­going back on things...?

Curiosity—­sharpened by a prick of fear—­impelled him to open her letter first.  And the moment he had read the opening line, compunction smote him.

“Roy—­my Dear, I couldn’t help remembering the ninth.  So I feel I must write and wish you ‘many happy returns’ of it—­happier than this one—­with all my heart.  I have worried over you a good deal.  For I’m sure you must have been ill.  Do go home soon and be properly taken care of, by your own people.  I’m going in the autumn with my friend, Mrs Hilton.  Some day you will surely find a wife worthier of you than I would have been.  When your good day comes, let me know and I’ll do the same by you.  Good luck to you always.—­ROSE.”

Roy slipped the note into his pocket and sat staring at the fire, deeply moved.  A vision of her—­too alluring for comfort—­was flashed upon his brain.  She was confoundedly attractive.  She had no end of good points:  but ... with a very big B....