una's eyes _would_ stray toward the recumbent figure
of Roy, when she fancied Emmie was not looking. And Emmie--who could see
very well without looking--wished him at the bottom of the river.

Propped on an elbow, he lay among Aruna's cushions, his senses stirred
by the faint carnation scent she used, enlarging on his latest
enthusiasm--Rabindranath Tagore, the first of India's poet-saints to
challenge the ethics of the withdrawn life. When the mood was on, the
veil of reserve swept aside, he could pour out his ardours, his
protests, his theories, in an eloquent rush of words. And
Aruna--absently wiping spoons and forks--listened entranced. He seemed
to be addressing no one in particular; but as often as not his gaze
rested on Broome, as though he were indirectly conveying to him thoughts
he felt shy of airing when they were alone.

A pause in the flow of his talk left a space of silence into which the
encompassing peace and radiance stole like an inflowing tide. None loved
better than Roy the ghostly music of silence; but to-night his brain was
filled with the music of words--not his own.

"Just listen to this," he said, without preamble. His eyes took on their
far-away look; his voice dropped a tone.

"The night is night of mid-May; the breeze is the breeze of the South.

"From my heart comes out and dances the image of my Desire.

"The gleaming vision flits on.

"I try to clasp it firmly, it eludes me and leads me astray.

"I seek what I cannot get; I get what I do not seek."

To that shining fragment of truth and beauty, his audience paid the
fitting tribute of silence; and his gaze--returning to earth--caught, in
Tara's eyes, a reflection of his exalted mood. Dyan saw it also; and
once more that red-hot wire pierced his heart.

It passed in a second; and Roy was speaking again--not to Tara, but to
her mother.

"Is there any poet, East or West, who can _quite_ so exquisitely capture
the essence of a mood, hold it lightly, like a fluttering bird, and as
lightly let it go?"

Lady Despard smiled approval at the simile. "In that one," she said, "he
has captured more than a mood--the very essence of life.--Have you met
him?"

"Yes, once--after a lecture. We had a talk--I'll never forget. There's
wonderful stuff in the new volume. I know most of it by heart."

"Spare us, good Lord," muttered Cuthbert--neither prejudiced nor
perverse, but British to the core. "If you start again, I'll retaliate
with Job an