“I suppose so.  I couldn’t swear, in a court of law, that I was awake.  It happened—­one evening, as I lay there, on her couch—­remembering ... going back over things.  And suddenly, out of the darkness, blossomed—­that.  Asleep or awake, my mind was alert enough to seize and hold the impression, without a glimmer of surprise ... till I came to, or woke up—­which you will.  Then my normal, sceptical self didn’t know what to make of it.  I’ve always dismissed that sort of thing as mere brain-trickery.  But—­a vivid, personal experience makes it ... not so easy.  Of course, from reading and a few old photographs, I knew it was Chitor:  and my chief concern was to record the vision in its first freshness.  For three days I worked at it:  only emerging now and then to snatch a meal.  I began with those and that——­”

He indicated a set of rough sketches and an impression in oils; a ghost of a city full of suggested beauty and mystery.  “No joke, trying to model with one hand; but you wouldn’t believe ... the swiftness ... the sureness ... as if my fingers knew....”

Roy could believe.  Occasionally his own fingers behaved so.

“When it was done, I put it in here,” his father went on, masking, with studied quietness, his elation at the effect on Roy.  “I’ve shown it to no one—­not even Aunt Helen.  I couldn’t write of it.  I felt it would sound crazy——­”

“Not to me,” said Roy.

“Well, I couldn’t tell that.  And I’ve been waiting—­for you.”

“Since—­when?”

“Since the third of March, this year.”

Roy drew an audible breath.  It was the anniversary of her passing.  “All that time!  How could you——?  Why didn’t you——?”

“Well—­you know.  You were obviously submerged—­your novel, Udaipur, Lance....  You wouldn’t have forgone all that ... if I know you, for a mere father.  But you’re here, at last, thank God.  And—­I want to know.  You’ve seen Chitor, as it is to-day....”

“I’ve seen more than that,” said Roy.  “I can tell you, now.  I couldn’t—­before.  Let’s sit.”

And sitting there, on her couch, in her House of Gods, he told the story of his moonlit ride and its culmination; told it in low tones, in swift vivid phrases that came of themselves....

Throughout the telling—­and for many minutes afterwards—­his father sat motionless; his head on his hand, half shielding his face from view....

“I’ve only spoken of it to Grandfather,” Roy said at last.  “And with all my heart, I wish he could see ... that.”

Sir Nevil looked up now, and the subdued exaltation in his eyes was wholly new to Roy.

“I’ve gone a good way beyond wishing,” he said.  “But again—­I was waiting for you.  I want to go out there, Roy—­with you two, when you’re married—­and see it all for myself.  With care, one could take the thing along, to verify and improve it on the spot.  Then—­what do you say?—­you and I might achieve a larger reproduction—­for Grandfather:  a gift to Rajputana—­my source of inspiration; a tribute ... to her memory, who still lights our lives ... with the inextinguishable lamp of her spirit——­”