own private affair. Whether they resented, or whether
they adored, the boys remained entirely unconcerned, entirely absorbed
in each other. It was Desmond's opinion of them that mattered supremely
to Roy; in particular--Desmond's opinion of his mother. After those
first puzzling remarks and silences, Roy had held his peace; had not
even shown Desmond her picture. His invitation accepted, he had simply
waited, in transcendent faith, for the moment of revelation. And now he
had his reward. After a prelude of mutual embarrassment, Lance had
succumbed frankly to Lady Sinclair's unexpected charm and her shy
irresistible overtures to friendship:--so frankly, that he was able,
now, to hint at his earlier perplexity.

He had seen no Indian women, he explained, except in bazaars or in
service; so he couldn't quite understand, until his own mother made
things clearer to him and recommended him to go and see for himself. Now
he had seen--and succumbed: and Roy's very private triumph was
unalloyed. Second only to that triumph, the really important outcome of
their glorious Ten Days was that, with Desmond's help, Roy fought the
battle of going on to Marlborough when he was twelve--and won....

It was horrid leaving them all again; but it did make a wonderful
difference knowing there was Desmond at the other end; and together they
would champion that doubtfully grateful victim--Chandranath. Their zeal
proved superfluous. Chandranath never reappeared at St Rupert's. Perhaps
his people had arrived at Desmond's conclusion, that he was not the
right "jat" for an English school. In any case, his disappearance was a
relief--and Roy promptly forgot all about him.

Years later--many years later--he was to remember.

* * * * *

After St Rupert's--Marlborough:--and just at first he hated it, as he
had hated St Rupert's, though in a different fashion. Here it was not so
much the longing for home, as a vague yet deepening sense that, in some
vital way--not yet fully understood--he was different from his fellows
But once he reached the haven of Desmond's study, the good days began in
earnest. He could read and dream along his own lines. He could scribble
verse or prose, when he ought to have been preparing quite other things;
and the results, good or bad, went straight to his mother.

Needless to say, she found them all radiant with promise; here and there
a flicker of the divine spark: and, throughout the yea