Certainly it did not occur to Lilamani that any trouble in Europe could invade the sanctities of her home, or affect the shining destiny of Roy.  That he was destined to shine, her mother’s heart knew beyond all doubt.  And round that knowledge, like an aura, glimmered a dreamlike hope that perhaps his shining might some day, in some way, strengthen the bond between Nevil’s people and her own.  For the problem of India’s changing relation to England lay intimately near her heart.  Her poetic brain saw England always as “husband of India”; while misguided or malicious meddlers—­who would “make the Mother a widow”—­were fancifully incorporated in the person of Jane.  And, in this matter of India, Roy had triumphed over Jane:—­surely good omens, for bigger things:—­for at heart she was still susceptible to omens; more so than she cared to admit.  Crazy mother-arrogance, Nevil would say.  But she seemed to feel the spirit of his grandfather at work in Roy; and well she knew that the old man’s wisdom would guide and temper his young zeal.  Beyond that, no human eyes could see; only the too-human heart of a mother could dream and hope....

Long ago her father had told her that nations had always been renewed by individuals; that India—­aristocratic to the deeps of her Brahmin-ridden soul—­would never acknowledge the crowd’s unstable sway.  For her it must always be the man—­ruler, soldier, or saint.

Not that she had breathed a word of her ‘arrogance’ to Nevil, or even to Roy.  Nor had she shown to either a certain letter from a distinguished Indian woman; pure Indian by birth; also by birth a Christian; her sympathy with East and West as evenly poised as Lilamani’s own.  The letter lived in a slim blue bag, lovingly embroidered.  Lilamani—­foolish and fanciful—­wore it like a talisman, next her heart; and at night slipped it under her pillow with her gold watch and wisp of scented lawn.

To-night, being alone, and her mind very full of Roy, she drew it out and re-read it for the hundredth time; lingering, as always, on its arresting finale.

“I have seen much and grieved more over the problem of the Eurasian, as multiplied in our beloved country—­the fruit, most often, of promiscuous unions between low-caste types on both sides, with sense of stigma added to drag them lower still.  But where the crossing is of highest caste—­as with you and your ’Nevil’—­I can see no stigma; perhaps even spiritual gain to your children.  For I love both countries with my whole heart.  And to my love God has given the vision that India may some day be saved by the son of just such a union as your own.  He will have the strength of his handicap; the soul of the East; the forceful mind and character of the West.  He will bring to the task of uniting them such twofold love and understanding that the world must needs take infection.  What if the ultimate meaning of British occupation of India be just this—­that the successor of Buddha should be a man born of high-caste, high-minded British and Indian parents; a fusion of the finest that East and West can give.  That vision may inspire you in your first flush of happy motherhood.  So I feel impelled to pass it on ...”