“Yes.  With Dyan.”

“In what capacity?”

“A lover and a learner.  Also—­by way of—­a budding author.  I was hoping you might back me up with a few commissions for my preliminary stuff.”

“You selected your godfather with unerring foresight!  And preliminaries over—­a book, or books, would be the end in view?”

“Yes—­and other things.  Whatever one can do—­in a small way—­to inspire a friendlier feeling all round; a clearer conviction that the destinies of England and India are humanly bound up together.  I’m sure those cursed politics are responsible for most of the friction.  It’s art and literature, the emotional and spiritual forces that draw men together, isn’t it, Jeffers? You know that——­”

He leaned forward, warming to his subject; the false start forgotten; shyness dispelled....

And, once started, none was more skilful than Broome in luring him on to fuller, unconscious self-revealing.  He knew very well that, on this topic, and on many others, Roy could enlarge more freely to him than to his father.  Youth is made that way.  In his opinion, it was all to the good that Roy should aspire to use his double heritage, for the legitimate and noble purpose of interpreting—­as far as might be—­East to West, and West to East:  not least, because he would probably learn a good deal more than he was qualified to teach.  It was in the process of qualifying himself, by closer acquaintance with India, that the lurking danger reared its head.  But some outlet there must be for the Eastern spirit in him; and his early efforts pointed clearly to literary expression, if Broome knew anything of the creative gift.  Himself a devotee, he agreed with Lafcadio Hearne that ’a man may do quite as great a service to his country by writing a book as by winning a battle’; and just so much of these thoughts as seemed fit he imparted to Roy, who—­in response to the last—­glowed visibly.

“Priceless old Jeffers!  I knew I could reckon on you to back me up—­and buck me up!  Of course one will be hugely encouraged by the bleating of the practical crowd—­Aunt Jane and Co. ’Why waste your time writing silly novels?’ And if you try to explain that novels have a real function, they merely think you’ve got a swelled head.”

“Never mind, Roy.  ‘The quest is a noble one and the hope great.’  And we scribblers have our glorious compensations.  As for Aunt Jane——­” He looked very straight at her nephew—­and winked deliberately.

“Oh, of course—­she’s the unlimited limit,” Roy agreed without shame.  “I suppose if Dad plays up, she’ll give him hell?”

“Good measure, pressed down.—­By the way—­have you spoken to him yet of all this——?”

“No.  Mother probably guesses.  But you’re the first.  I made sure you’d understand——­”

“You feel doubtful—­about Father?”

“M-yes.  I don’t quite know why.”