He had never been so thankful to get away from that hospitable house, where he had imagined himself so happy....

They were out in the street again, striding back to New College:  Roy—­not yet alive to the change in him—­full of it all; talking nineteen to the dozen.  But Dyan’s urgent heart spoke louder than his cousin’s voice.  And all the while he kept wondering consumedly—­Was it Roy?

He could not bring himself to ask outright.  The answer would madden him either way.  And Goodness—­or Badness—­knew he was miserable enough:  hurt, angry with Fate, with England, even with Tara—­lovely and unattainable!  She had spoilt everything:  his relation with her, with her people, with Roy.  She had quenched his zeal for their joint crusade.  All the same, he would hold Roy to the India plan; since there was just a chance—­and it would take him away from her.  He hated himself for the thought; but jealousy, in the East, is a consuming fire....

Roy’s monologue ceased abruptly.  “Your innings, old chap, I think!” he said.  “You’re mum as a fish this afternoon.  I noticed it in there—­I thought you’d have lots to say to Ramji Lal.”

Dyan frowned.  He could not for long play at pretences with Roy.

“Those ladies did all the saying.  They would not have liked it at all if I had spoken my true thought,”—­he paused and added deliberately—­“that we are all cracking our skulls against stone walls.”

“My dear chap——!” Roy stared in frank bewilderment.  “What’s gone wrong?  Your liver touched up?  Too much salmon mayonnaise and cream?”

His light tone goaded Dyan to exasperation.  “Quite likely,” he retorted, a sneer lurking in his tone.  “Plenty of mayonnaise and cream, for all parties.  But when we make bold to ask for more satisfying things, we find ‘No Indians need apply.’”

“But—­my good Dyan——!”

“Well—­it’s true.  Suppose I wish to promote that closer union we all chatter about by marrying an English girl—­what then?”

Up went Roy’s eyebrows.  “Are you after an English wife?”

“I am submitting a case—­that might easily occur.”  He spoke with a touch of irritation; and fearing self-betrayal, swerved from the main issue.  “Would you marry an Indian girl?”

“I believe so.  If I was keen.  I’m not at all sure, though, if it’s sound—­in principle—­mixing such opposite strains.  And in your case—­hypothetical, I suppose——?”

Dyan’s grunt confessed nothing and denied nothing.

“Well—­from what one hears, an English wife, out there, might make a bit of complication, if you get the ‘Civil.’”

Dyan started.  “I shan’t go up for it.  I’ve changed my mind.”

“Good Lord!  And you’ve been sweating all this time.”

Dyan’s smile was tinged with bitterness.