ut this India business was
tremendously important, and the dear old boy would never suspect----

Roy watched him savouring the chicken and peas; discussing the decay of
falling in love, its reasons and remedies; and thought, for the
hundredth time, what a splendid old boy he was; so big and breezy,
nothing bookish or newspapery about him. Quite a masterpiece of
modelling, on Nature's part; the breadth and bulk of him; the massive
head, with its thatch of tawny-grey hair that retreated up the sides of
his forehead, making corners; the nose, rugged and full of character;
the beard and the sea-blue eyes that gave him the sailor aspect Roy had
so loved in nursery days. Now he appraised it consciously, with the
artist's eye. A vigorous bust of his godfather was his acknowledged
masterpiece, so far, in the modelling line, which he preferred to brush
or pencil. But first and foremost, literature claimed him: poetry,
essays, and the despised novel--truest and most plastic medium for
interpreting man to man and race to race: the most entirely obvious
medium, thought Roy, for promoting the cause he had at heart.

Though his brain was overflowing with the one subject, he was reserving
it diplomatically for the more intimate atmosphere of port wine, coffee
and cigars. Meantime they always had plenty to talk about, these two.
Broome held the unorthodox view that he probably had quite as much to
learn from the young as they from him; and at the moment, the question
whether Roy should take up literature in earnest was very much to the
fore.

Once or twice during a pause, he caught the shrewd blue eye watching him
from under shaggy brows; but each kept his own counsel till the scout
had removed all superfluities. Then Broome chose a cigar, sniffed it,
and beheaded it.

"My particular weakness!" he remarked pensively, while Roy filled his
glass. "What an attentive godson it is! And after this intriguing
prelude--what of the main plot? India?"

Under a glance as direct as the question Roy reddened furiously. The
'dear old boy' had done more than suspect; he had seen through the whole
show--the indignity of all others that youth can least abide.

At sight of his crestfallen countenance, Broome laughed outright. "Bear
up, old man! Don't grudge me a fraction of the wits I live by. Weren't
you trying to give me an inkling yesterday?"

Roy nodded, mollified a little. But his self-confidence wilted under the
false start. "How about arm