cold out here," he said, in a repressed voice. Roy followed him
across the roof top, with its low parapet and vault of darkening sky, up
three steps, into an arcaded room, where a log fire burned in the open
hearth. Shabby, unrelated bits of furniture gave the place a comfortless
air. On a corner table strewn with leaflets and pamphlets ("Poisoned
arrows, up to date!" thought Roy), a typewriter reared its hooded head.
The sight struck a shaft of pain through him. Aruna's Dyan--son of kings
and warriors--turning his one skilful hand to such base uses!

"What's wrong?" he repeated with emphasis. "I want a straight answer,
Dyan. I've risked something to get it."

Dyan sat down near a small table, and took his head between his hands.
"There is--so much wrong," he said, looking steadily up at Roy. "I am
feeling--like a man who wakes too suddenly after much sleepwalking."

"Since when?" asked Roy, keeping himself in hand. "What's jerked you
awake? D'you know?"

"There have been many jerks. Seeing you; Aruna's offering; this news of
the War; and something ... you mentioned last time."

"What was that ... Tara?" Roy lunged straight to the middle of the
wound.

Dyan started. "But--how----! I never said...." he stammered, visibly
shaken.

"It didn't need saying. Aruna told me--the fact; and my own wits told me
the rest. You're not honestly keen--are you?--to shorten the arm of the
British Raj and plunge India into chaos?"

"No--no." A very different Dyan, this, to the one who had poured out
stock phrases like water only a week ago.

"Isn't bitterness--about Tara, at the back of it! Face that straight.
And--if it's true, say so without false shame."

Dyan was silent a long while, staring into the fire. "Very strange. I
had no idea," he said at last. The words came slowly, as if he were
thinking aloud. "I was angry--miserable; hating you all; even--very
nearly--_her_. Then came the War; and I thought--now our countries will
become like one. I will win her by some brave action--she who is the
spirit of courage. From France, after all that praise of Indians in the
papers, I wrote again. No use. After that, I hoped by some brave action,
I might be killed. Instead, through stupid carelessness, I am only
maimed--as you see. I was foolishly angry when Indian troops were sent
away from France: and my heart became hard like a nut."--He had emerged
from his dream now and was frankly addressing Roy----"I knew, if I went
home, th