his last, that Fate--unmoved by 'light of smiles or tears'--is no
respecter of profound convictions or of beautiful days.

CHAPTER III.

"Man am I grown; a man's work I must do."
--TENNYSON.

Tara was right. The Boy-of-ten (Roy persistently ignored the half) was
rather a large boy: also rather lumpy. He had little eyes and freckles
and what Christine called a "turnip nose." He wore a very new school
blazer and real cricket trousers, with a flannel shirt and school tie
that gave Roy's tussore shirt and soft brown bow almost a girlish air.
Something in his manner and the way he aired his school slang, made
Roy--who never shone with strangers--feel "miles younger," which did not
help to put him at ease.

His name was Joe Bradley. He had been in India till he was nearly eight;
and he talked about India, as he talked about school, in a rather
important voice, as befitted the only person present who knew anything
of either.

Roy was quite convinced he knew nothing at all about Rajputana or Chitor
or Prithvi Raj or the sacred peacocks of Jaipur. But somehow he could
not make himself talk about these things simply for "show off," because
a strange boy, with bad manners, was putting on airs.

Besides, he never much wanted to talk when he was eating, though he
could not have explained why. So he devoted his attention chiefly to a
plate of chocolate cakes, leaving the Boy-of-ten conversationally in
command of the field.

He was full of a recent cricket match, and his talk bristled with such
unknown phrases as "square leg," "cover point" and "caught out." But for
some reason--pure perversity perhaps--they stirred in Roy no flicker of
curiosity, like his father's "flair for the obvious." He didn't know
what they meant--and he didn't care, which was not the least like Roy.
Tara, who owned big brothers, seemed to know all about it, or looked as
if she did; and to show you didn't understand what a girl understood,
would be the last indignity.

When the cricket show-off was finished, Joe talked India and ragged
Tara, in a big-brotherly way, ignored Christine, as if five and a half
simply didn't count. That roused Roy; and by way of tacit rebuke, he
bestowed such marked attention on his small sister, that Christine (who
adored him, and was feeling miserably shy) sparkled like a dewdrop when
the sun flashes out.

She was a tiny creature, exquisitely proportioned; fair, like her