It was precisely this hidden quality, so finely balanced, that intrigued the brain of the novelist, as distinct from the heart of the godfather.  Which was the real Roy?  Which would prove the decisive factor at the critical corners of his destiny?  To what heights would it carry him—­into what abyss might it plunge him—­that gleam from the ancient soul of things?  Would India—­and his young glorification of India—­be, for him, a spark of inspiration or a stone of stumbling?

Broome had not seen much of the boy, intimately, since the New Year; and he did not need spectacles to discern some inner ferment at work.  Roy was more talkative and less communicative than usual; and Broome let him talk, reading between the lines.  He knew to a nicety the moment when a chance question will kill confidence—­or evoke it.  He suspected one of those critical corners.  He also suspected one of those Indian cousins of his:  delightful, both of them; but still....

The question remained, which was it—­the girl or the boy?

The girl, Aruna—­student at Somerville College—­was reclining among vast blue and pink cushions in the bows, pensively twirling a Japanese parasol, one arm flung round the shoulders of her companion—­a fellow-student; fair and stolid and good-humoured.  Broome summed her up mentally:  “Tactless but trustworthy.  Anglo-Saxon to the last button on her ready-made Shantung coat and the blunted toe of her white suede shoe.”

Aruna—­in plain English, Dawn—­was quite arrestingly otherwise.  Not beautiful, like Lilamani, nor quite so fair of skin; but what the face lacked in symmetry was redeemed by lively play of expression, piquante tilt of nose and chin, large eyes, velvet-dark like brown pansies.  The modelling of the face—­its breadth and roundness and upturned aspect—­gave it a pansy-like air.  Over her simple summer frock of carnation pink she wore a paler sari flecked with gold; and two ropes of coral beads enhanced the deeper coral of her full lower lip.  Not yet eighteen, she was studying “pedagogy” for the benefit of her less adventurous sisters in Jaipur.

Clearly a factor to be reckoned with, this creature of girlish laughter and high purpose; a woman to the tips of her polished finger nails.  Yet Broome had by no means decided that it was the girl——­

After Desmond—­Dyan Singh:  each, in his turn and type, own brother to Roy’s complex soul.  Broome—­in no insular spirit—­preferred the earlier influence.  But Desmond had sped like an arrow to the Border, where his eldest brother commanded their father’s old regiment; and Dyan Singh—­handsome and fiery, young India at its best—­reigned in his stead.  The two were of the same college.  Dyan, twelve months younger, looked the older by a year or more.  Face and form bore the Rajput stamp of virility, of a racial pride, verging on arrogance; and the Rajput insignia of breeding—­noticeably small hands and feet.

He was poling the second punt with less skill and assurance than Roy.  His attention was palpably distracted by a vision of Tara among the cushions in the bows; an arm linked through her mother’s, as though defending her against the implication of being older than any one else, or in the least degree out of it because of that trifling detail—­tacitly admitted, while hotly denied; which was Tara all over.