ven herself. Her early twinges of
jealousy, during that phase, rarely troubled her now. As wife and
mother, she better understood the dual allegiance--the twofold strain of
the creative process, whether in spirit or flesh. Now she knew that,
when art seemed most exclusively to claim him, his need was greater, not
less, for her woman's gift of self-effacing tenderness, of personal
physical service. And through deeper love, came clearer insight. She saw
Nevil--the artist--as a veritable Yogi, impelled to ceaseless striving
for mastery of himself, his atmosphere, his medium: saw her wifely love
and service as the life-giving impetus without which he might flag and
never reach the heights.

Women of wide social and intellectual activities might raise perplexed
eyebrows over her secluded life, still instinct with the 'spirit of
purdah.' She found the daily pattern of it woven with threads so richly
varied that to cherish a hidden grief seemed base ingratitude. Yet
always--at the back of things--lurked her foolish mother-anxieties, her
deep unuttered longing. And letters were cold comfort. In the first few
weeks she had come to dread opening them. Always the bitter cry of
loneliness and longing for home. What was it Nevil had said to make so
surprising a change? Craving to know, she feared to ask; and more than
suspected that he blessed her for refraining.

And now came this long, exultant letter, written in the first flush of
his great discovery----

And as she read on, she became aware of a new sensation. This was
another kind of Roy. On the first page he was pouring out his heart in
careless unformed phrases. By the end of the second, his tale had hold
of him; he was enjoying--perhaps unaware--the exercise of a
newly-awakened gift. And, looking up, at last, to share it with Nevil,
she caught him in the act of tracing a curve of her sari in mid-air.

With a playful movement--pure Eastern--she drew it half over her face.

"Oh, Nevil--you wicked! I never guessed----"

"That was the beauty of it. I make my salaams to Roy! What's he been up
to that it takes four sheets to confess?"

"Not confessing. Telling a tale. It will surprise you."

"Let's have a look."

She gave him the letter; and while he read it, she intently watched his
face. "The boy'll write--I shouldn't wonder," was his verdict, handing
back her treasure, with an odd half-smile in his eyes.

"And you were hoping--he would paint?" she said, answering his