It was as he supposed.  She had understood his thoughts long before.  He flung out his hand—­a fine, nervous hand—­and laid it on her knee.

“You’re a miracle.  I believe you know all about it.”

“I believe—­I do,” she answered, letting her own hand rest on his; moving her fingers, now and then, in the ghost of a caress:—­an endearing way she had.  “You are wishing—­to go out there?”

“Yes.  I simply must. You understand?”

She inclined her head and, for a moment, veiled her eyes.  “I am proud.  But you cannot understand how difficult ... for us ... letting you go.  And Dad....”

She paused.

“You think he’ll hate it—­want to keep me here?”

“My darling—­’hate’ is too strong.  He cares very much for all that makes friendship between England and India.  But—­is it wonder if he cares more for his own son?  You will speak to him soon?”

“To-morrow.  Unless—­a word or two, first, from you——­”

“No, not that!” She smiled at his old boyish faith in her.  “Better to keep me outside.  You see—­I am India.  So I am already too much in it that way.”

“You are in it up to the hilt!” he declared with sudden fervour:  and—­his tongue unloosed—­he poured out to her a measure of his pent up feeling; how they had inspired him—­she and his father; how he naturally hoped they would back him up; and a good deal more that was for her private ear alone....

Her immense capacity for listening, her eloquent silence and gentle flashes of raillery, her occasional caress—­all were balm to him in his electrical mood.

Were ever two beings quite so perfectly in tune——?

Could he possibly leave her?  Could he face the final wrench?

When at last she stooped to kiss him, the faint clear whiff of sandalwood waked a hundred memories; and he held her close a long time, her cheek against his hair.

“Bad boy!  Let me go,” she pleaded; and, with phenomenal obedience, he unclasped his hands.

“See if you can go now!”

It was his old childish game.  The moment she stirred, his hands were locked again.

“Son of my heart—­I must!”

“One more kiss then—­for luck!”

So she kissed him, for luck, and left him to his midnight browsings....

* * * * *

Next morning she sat among her cushions in the studio, ostensibly reading a long letter from her father.  Actually, her mind was intent on Nevil, who stood at his easel absorbed in fragmentary studies for a new picture—­flying draperies; a man’s face cleverly fore-shortened.

Though nearing fifty, he looked more like five-and-thirty; his face singularly free of lines; his fair hair scarcely showing the intrusion of grey.  To her he seemed perennially young; and dearer than ever—­if that could be—­as the years mellowed and deepened the love on which they had boldly staked everything that counted most for them both.  Yet, for all her skill in divination, she could not tell precisely how he would take the things Roy had to say; nor whether Roy himself would say them in just the right way.  With Nevil, so much depended on that.