All these challenging forces seemed to dwarf his juvenile agitations; even to arraign his own beautiful surroundings as almost too peaceful, too perfect.  Life could not be altogether made up of goodness and sweetness and poetry and philosophy.  Somewhere—­remote, unseen, implacable—­there must lurk strong things, big things, perhaps inimical things, waiting to pounce on him, to be tackled and overcome.  Anyhow there could be no question, after all his vapourings, of playing the fool and backing out——­

He was on the ridge now; clear space all about him, heather underfoot; his stride keeping pace with the march of his thoughts.  Risks...?  Of course there were risks.  He recognised that more frankly now; and the talk with his mother had revealed a big one that had not so much as occurred to him.  For Broome was right.  Concentration on her had, in a sense, delayed his emotional development; had kept him—­for all his artistry and his First in Greats—­very much a boy at heart.  Certainly, Aruna’s grace and gaiety had struck him more consciously during this last visit.  No denying, the Eastern element had its perilous fascination.  And the Eastern element was barred.  As for Tara—­sister and friend and High Tower Princess in one—­she was as much a part of home as his mother and Christine.  He had simply not seen her yet as a budding woman.  He had, in fact, been too deeply absorbed in Oxford and writing and his dream, and the general deliciousness of life, to challenge the future definitely, except in the matter of going to India, somewhen, somehow....

Lost in the swirl of his thoughts and the exhilaration of light and colour, he forgot all about tea-time....

It was after five when, at last, he swung round the yew hedge on to the long lawn; and there, at the far end, was Tara, evidently sent out to find him.  She was wearing her delphinium frock and the big blue hat with its single La France rose.  She walked pensively, her head bowed; and, in that moment, by some trick of sense or spirit, he saw her vividly, as she was.  He saw the grace of her young slenderness, the wild-flower colouring, the delicate aquiline of her nose that revealed breeding and character; the mouth that even in repose seemed to quiver with sensibility.  And he thought:  “Good Lord!  How lovely she is!”

Of course he had known it always—­at the back of his mind.  The odd thing was, he had never thought it, in so many words, before.  And from the thought sprang an inspiration.  If only she could come out with them—­for a time, at least.  So imbued was he with a sense of their brother and sister relation, that the idea seemed as natural as if it had concerned Christine.  He had certainly been aware, the last year or so, of a gossamer veil dropped between them.  He attributed this to mere grown-up-ness; but it made him feel appreciably shy at thought of broaching his brilliant idea.

She raised her head at that point; saw him, and waved a commanding hand.  Impelled by eagerness, he condescended to hurry.