And suddenly the spell was broken by the voice of Roger the footman, who had approached noiselessly along the mossy track.

“If you please, m’lady, Sir Nevil sent word as Lord and Lady Roscoe ’ave arrived unexpected; and if convenient, can you come in?”

They all started visibly and their dream-world of desert and rose-red mountains and battle-fields and leaping flames shivered like a soap-bubble at the touch of a careless hand.

Lilamani rose, gentle and dignified.  “Thank you, Roger.  Tell Sir Nevil I am coming.”

Roy suppressed a groan.  The mere mention of Aunt Jane made one feel vaguely guilty.  To his nimble fancy it was almost as if her very person had invaded their sanctuary, in her neat hard coat and skirt and her neat hard summer hat with its one fierce wing, that, disdaining the tenderness of curves, seemed to stab the air, as her eyes so often seemed to stab Roy’s hyper-sensitive brain.

“Oh dear!” he sighed.  “Will they stop for lunch?”

“I expect so.”

He wrinkled his nose in a wicked grimace.

“Bad boy!” said Lilamani’s lips, but her eyes said other things.  He knew, and she knew that he knew how, in her heart, she shared his innate antagonism.  Was it not of her own bestowing—­a heritage of certain memories—­ineffaceable, unforgiveable—­during her early days of marriage?  But in spite of that mutual knowledge, Roy was never allowed to speak disrespectfully of his formidable aunt.

“You can stay out and play till half-past twelve, not one minute later,” she said—­and left them to their own delectable devices.

Roy had been promoted to a silver watch on his eighth birthday, so he could be relied on; and he still enjoyed a private sense of importance when the fact was recognised.

Left alone they had only to pick up the threads of their game; a sort of interminable serial story, in which they lived and moved and had their being.  But first Tara—­in her own person—­had a piece of news to impart.  Hunching up her knees, she tilted back her head till it touched the satin-grey hole of the tree and all her hair lay shimmering against it like a stream of pale sunshine.

“What do you think?” she nodded at Roy with her elfin smile.  “We’ve got a Boy-on-a-visit and his mother, from India.  They came last night.  He’s rather a large boy.”

“Is he nine?” Roy asked, standing up very straight and slim, a defensive gleam in his eye.

“He’s ten and a half.  And he looks bigger’n that.  He goes to school.  And he’s been quite a lot in India.”

“Not my India.”

“I don’t know.  He called it ’Mballa.  That letter I brought from Mummy was asking if she could bring them for tea.”

“Well, I don’t want him for tea.  I don’t like your Boy-on-a-visit.  I’ll tell Mummy.”

“Oh, Roy—­you mustn’t.”  She made reproachful eyes at him.  “Coz then I couldn’t come.  And he’s quite nice—­only rather lumpy.  And you can’t not like someb’dy you’ve never seen.”