by a college full of friendly English girls,
she had very soon lost what little shyness she ever possessed. Now and
again, when his eyes challenged hers, she would veil them and watch him
surreptitiously; one moment approving his masculine grace; the next,
boldly asking herself: "Does he see how I am wearing the favourite
sari--and how my coral beads make my lips look red?" And again: "Why do
they make foolish talk of a gulf between East and West?"

To that profound question came no answer in words; only in hidden
stirrings, that she preferred to ignore. Both brother and sister had
persuaded themselves that talk of a gulf was exaggerated by unfriendly
spirits. They, at all events, having built their bridge, took its
stability for granted. Children of an emotional race, it sufficed to
discover that they loved the cool green freshness of England, the
careless kindly freedom of her life and ways; the hum of her restless,
smoky, all-embracing London; her miles and miles of books and pictures.
Above everything they loved Oxford, where all were brothers in
spirit--with a proper sense of difference between the brothers of one's
own college and the mere outsider:--Oxford, at this particular hour of
this particular June evening. And at this actual moment, they loved
salmon mayonnaise and crushed strawberries fully as much as any other
manifestation of the delectable land.

And down in subconscious depths--untroubled by the play of surface
emotions--burned their passionate, unreasoned love of India that any
chance breath might rekindle to a flame.

Presently, as the sun drew down to earth, trees and meadows swam in a
golden haze. Arrows of gold, stealing through alders and willows,
conjured mere leaves into discs of pure green light. Clouds of pollen
brightened to dust of gold. In the near haze midges flickered; and,
black against the brightness, swallows wheeled and dipped, uttering thin
cries in the ecstasy of their evening flight.

On the two punts in the backwater a great peace descended after the
hilarity of their feast. Clouds of cigarette smoke kept midges at bay.
In the deepening stillness small sounds asserted themselves--piping of
gnats, the trill of happy birds, snatches of disembodied laughter and
talk from other parties in other punts, somewhere out of sight....

Only Aruna did not smoke; and Emily Barnard, her fanatic devotee,
retired with her to the bank, where they made a lazy pretence of
"washing up." But Ar