He found her, companioned by the ruins of tea, in the depths of her great arm-chair; eyes and fingers intent on a square of elaborate embroidery; thoughts astray with her unpunctual son.

Bramleigh Beeches drawing-room—­as recreated by Sir Nevil Sinclair for his Indian bride—­was a setting worthy of its mistress:  lofty and spacious, light filled by three tall French windows, long gold curtains shot through with bronze; gold and cream colour the prevailing tone; ivory, brass, and bronze the prevailing incidentals, mainly Indian; and flowers in profusion—­roses, lilies, sweet-peas.  Yet, in the midst of it all, the spirit of Lilamani Sinclair was restless, lacking the son, of whom, too soon, both she and her home would be bereft——­

At the sound of his step she looked up.

“Wicked one!  What came to you?”

Impossible to hide from her the disarray of his emotions.  So he spoke the simple truth.

“Tara came to me——!  I’d been prowling on the moor, and forgetting the time.  I met her on the lawn——­”

“Yes—­where is she?—­And you——?”

He caught the note of apprehension.  Next moment he was kneeling by her chair, confessing all.

“Mummy, I’ve just asked her—­to marry me.  And she simply ... won’t hear of it.  I thought it would be so lovely, going out together—­that it would please you so——­”

The smile in her eyes recalled Tara’s own.  “Did you say it that way—­to her, my darling?”

“No—­not exactly.  Naturally I did mention you—­and India.  She admits she’s fond of me.  Yet she got quite angry.  I can’t make her out.”

A faintly aggrieved note in his voice, implied expectation of sympathy.  To his inexpressible surprise she said pensively, as if to herself:  “Such a wise Tara!”

“Well, I don’t see where the wisdom comes in,” he muttered a trifle disconcerted.

“Not yet, son of my heart.  Some day perhaps when your eyes are not too dazzled from the many-coloured sparkle of youth—­of yourself—­you will see—­many surprises.  You are not yet ready for a wife, Roy.  Your heart is reaching out to far-away things.  That—­she has been woman enough to guess.”

“Perhaps, I’m not so sure.  She seemed—­not a bit like herself, part of the time.”  He looked pensively at a slim vase overflowing with sprays of blush rambler, that, for some reason, evoked a tantalising vision of the girl who had so suddenly blossomed into a woman; and his shy, lurking thought found utterance:  “I’ve been wondering, Mummy, is it ... can she be—­in love with somebody else?  Do you think she is?”

Lilamani shook her head at him.  “That is a man’s question!  Hard to tell.  At this kind of age, when girls have so much character—­like my Tara—­they have a natural instinct for hiding the thoughts of their hearts.”  She dropped her needlework now and lightly took his head between her hands, looking deep into his eyes.  “Do you think you are yet—­in love with her, Roy?  Honest answer.”