Instead, it is in danger of
being stamped out by false Swadeshi--an imitation product of the West;
noisy and political, crying out for more factories, more councils;
caring nothing for true Indian traditions of art and life. It will not
buy goods from Birmingham and Manchester; but it will create Birmingham
and Manchester in India. In effect, it is the age-old argument whether
the greatness of a nation comes from the dominion of men or
machinery....

For all this, Dyan had cared intensely twenty-four hours ago. Now it
seemed little better than a rhapsody of fine phrases--'sounding brass
and tinkling cymbals.'

Could the mere word of a woman so swiftly and violently transform the
mind of a man? His innate masculinity resented the idea. It succumbed,
nevertheless. He was too deeply hurt in his pride and his passionate
heart to think or feel sanely while the wound was still so fresh. He was
scarcely stirred even by the allusion to Rajputana in Mr Ramji Lal's
peroration.

"I ask you to consider, in conclusion--my dear and honoured English
friends--the words of a veteran lover of India, who is also a son of
England. It was his conviction--it is also mine--that 'the still living
art of India, the still living chivalry of Rajputana, the still living
religion of the Hindus, are the only three points on which there is any
possibility of regenerating the national life of India--the India of the
Hindus....'"

Very fine; doubtless very true; but what use--after all--their eternal
talk? By blowing volumes of air from their lungs, did they shift the
mountains of difficulty one single inch?

More talk followed; tea and attentions that would have flattered him
yesterday. To-day it all passed clean over his head. They were ready
enough to pamper him, like a lap-dog, these good ladies; forgetting he
was a man, with a man's heart and brain, making demand for something
more than carefully chosen sugar-plums.

He had never been so thankful to get away from that hospitable house,
where he had imagined himself so happy....

They were out in the street again, striding back to New College:
Roy--not yet alive to the change in him--full of it all; talking
nineteen to the dozen. But Dyan's urgent heart spoke louder than his
cousin's voice. And all the while he kept wondering consumedly--_Was_ it
Roy?

He could not bring himself to ask outright. The answer would madden him
either way. And Goodness--or Badness--knew he was miserable enoug