“Not too proud to obey you,” he muttered.

She saw the words rather than heard them; and he turned away without daring to meet her eyes.

It all passed in a few seconds, but it left him tingling with repressed rage.  He had made a fool of himself in her eyes; had probably given away his secret to the whole party.  After all, what matter?  He could not much longer have kept it hidden.  By the touch of hands and his daring words he had practically told her....

As he settled himself, her clear voice rang out:  “Wake up, Roy!  I’ll race you to the backwater.”

They raced to the backwater; and Tara won by half a length, amid cheers from the men.

“Well, you see, I had to let you,” Roy explained, as she confronted him, flushed with triumph.  “Seemed a shame to cut you out.  Not as if you were a giddy suffragette!”

“Qui s’excuse—­s’accuse!” she retorted.  “Anyway—­I’m the winner.”

“Right you are.  The way of girls was ever so.  No matter what line you take, it’s safe to be the wrong one.”

“Hark at the Cynic!” jeered young Cuthbert.  “Were you forty on the 9th, or was it forty-five?”

Roy grinned.  “Good old Cuthers!  Don’t exhaust yourself trying to be funny!  Fish out the drinks.  We’ve earned them, haven’t we—­High Tower Princess?” The last, confidentially, for Tara’s ear alone.

And Dyan, seeing the smile in her eyes, felt jealousy pierce him like a red-hot wire.

The supper, provided by Roy and Dyan, was no scratch wayside meal, but an ambrosial affair:—­salmon mayonnaise, ready mixed; glazed joints of chicken; strawberries and cream; lordly chocolate boxes; sparkling moselle—­and syphons for the abstemious.

It was a lively meal:  Roy, dropped from the clouds, the film of the East gone from his face, was simply Nevil again; even as young Cuthbert, with his large build and thatch of tawny hair, was a juvenile edition of Broome.  And the older man, watching them, bandying chaff with them, renewed his youth for one careless golden hour.

The punts were ranged alongside; and they all ate together, English and Indian.  No irksome caste rules on this side of the water; no hint of condescension in the friendly attitude of young Oxford.  Nothing to jar the over-sensibility of young India—­prone to suspect slight where no thought of it exists; too often, also, treated to exhibitions of ill-bred arrogance that undo in an hour the harmonising work of years.

Dyan sat by Tara, anticipating her lightest need; courage rising by leaps and bounds.  Aruna, from her nest of cushions, exchanged lively sallies with Roy.  Petted by a college full of friendly English girls, she had very soon lost what little shyness she ever possessed.  Now and again, when his eyes challenged hers, she would veil them and watch him surreptitiously; one moment approving his masculine grace; the next, boldly asking herself:  “Does he see how I am wearing the favourite sari—­and how my coral beads make my lips look red?” And again:  “Why do they make foolish talk of a gulf between East and West?”