“N—­no,” he said at last, still staring at the unblinking sunshine.  “Not Home.  Not yet—­anyway.”

Then, having confessed, he turned and looked straight into the eyes of his friend—­the hazel-grey eyes he had so admired, as a small boy, because of the way they darkened with anger or strong feeling.  And he admired them still.  “A coward—­am I?  It’s not a flattering conclusion.  But I suppose it’s the cold truth.”

“It hasn’t struck me that way.”  Desmond frankly returned his look.

“That’s a mercy.  But—­if one’s name happened to be Lance Desmond, one would go—­anyhow.”

“I doubt it.  The place must be simply alive—­with memories.  We Anglo-Indians, jogged from pillar to post, know precious little about homes like yours.  A man—­can’t judge——­”

“You’re a generous soul, Lance!” Roy broke out with sudden warmth.  “Anyway—­coward or no—­I simply can’t face—­the ordeal, yet awhile.  I believe my father will understand.  After all—­here I am in India, as planned, before the Great Interruption.  So—­given the chance, I might as well take it.  The dear old place is mostly empty, these days—­with Tiny married and Dad’s Air Force job pinning him to Town. So—­as I remarked before——!”

“You’ll hang on out here for the present?  Thank God for that much.”

Desmond’s pious gratitude was so fervent that they both burst out laughing; and their laughter cleared the air of ghosts.

“Jaipur it is, I suppose, as planned.  Thea will be overjoyed.  Whether Jaipur’s precisely a health resort——?”

“I’m not after health resorts.  I’m after knowledge—­and a few other things.  Not Jaipur first, anyway.  The moment I get the official order of the boot—­I’m for Chitor.”

“Chitor?” Faint incredulity lurked in Desmond’s tone.

“Yes—­the casket that enshrines the soul of a race; buried in the wilds of Rajasthan.  Ever heard tell of it, you arrant Punjabi?  Or does nothing exist for you south of Delhi?”

“Just a thing or two—­not to mention Thea!”

“Of course—­I beg her pardon! She would appreciate Chitor.”

“Rather.  They went there—­and Udaipur, last year.  She’s death on getting Vincent transferred.  And the Burra Sahibs are as wax in her hands.  If they happen to be musical, and she applies the fiddle, they haven’t an earthly——!”

Roy’s eyes took on their far-away look.

“It’ll be truly uplifting to see her—­and hear her fiddle once more, if she’s game for an indefinite dose of my society.  Anyway, there’s my grandfather——­”

“Quite superfluous,” Desmond interposed a shade too promptly.  “If I know Thea, she’ll hang on to you for the cold weather; and ensure you a pied a terre if you want to prowl round Rajputana and give the bee in your bonnet an airing!  You’ll be in clover.  The Residency’s a sort of palace.  Not precisely Thea’s ideal of bliss.  She’s a Piffer at heart;