He spoke very quietly; but under the quietness Roy guessed there was purpose—­there was fire.  This boy knew exactly what he meant to do in his grown-up life—­that large, vague word crowded with exciting possibilities.  He stood there, straight as an arrow, looking out to sea; and straight as an arrow he would make for his target when school and college let go their hold.  Something of this Roy dimly apprehended:  and his interest was tinged with envy.  If they all ‘belonged,’ were they Indians, he wondered; and decided not, because of Desmond’s coppery brown hair.  He wanted to understand—­to hear more.  He almost forgot he was at school.

“We belong too——­” he ventured shyly; and Desmond turned with a kindling eye.

“Good egg!  What Province?”

“Rajputana.”

“Oh—­miles away.  Which service?”

Roy looked puzzled.  “I—­don’t know You see—­it’s my mother—­that belongs.  My grandfather’s a Minister in a big Native State out there.”

“Oh—­I say!”

There was a shadow of change in his tone.  His direct look was a little embarrassing.  He seemed to be considering Roy in a new light.

“I—­I wouldn’t have thought it,” he said; and added a shade too quickly:  “We don’t belong—­that way.  We’re all Anglo-Indians—­Frontier Force.” (Clearly a fine thing to be, thought Roy, mystified, but impressed.) “Is your father in the Political?”

More conundrums!  But, warmed by Desmond’s friendliness, Roy grew bolder.

“No.  He hates politics.  He’s just—­just a gentleman.”

Desmond burst out laughing.

“Top hole!  He couldn’t do better than that.  But—­if your mother—­he must have been in India?”

“Afterwards—­they went.  I’ve been too.  He found Mother in France.  He painted her.  He’s a rather famous painter.”

“What name?”

“Sinclair.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of him.—­And your people are always at home.  Lucky beggar!” He was silent a moment watching Roy unlace his boot.  Then he asked suddenly, in a voice that tried to sound casual:  “I say—­have you told any of the other boys—­about India—­and your Mother?”

“No—­why?  Is there any harm?” Roy was on the defensive at once.

“Well—­no.  With the right sort, it wouldn’t make a scrap of difference.  But you can see what some of ’em are like—­Bennet Ma. and his crew.  Making a dead set at that poor blighter, just because he isn’t their colour——­”

Roy started.  “Was it only because of that?” he asked with emphasis.

“’Course it was.  Plain as a pike-staff.  I suppose they’d bullied him into cheeking them.  And they were hacking him on to his knees—­forcing him to salaam.”  Twin sparks sprang alight in his eyes.  “That sort of thing—­makes me feel like a kettle on the boil.  Wish I’d had a boiling kettle to empty over Bennet.”

“So do I—­the mean Scab!  And he’s pinched your bicycle.”