ience in the flesh.

But there was Dyan to prove it no dream; and the perilous charm of
Aruna, that must be resisted to the best of his power....

* * * * *

All this stir and ferment within; yet not a surface ripple disturbed
the flow of those uneventful weeks between the return of Roy and the
coming of Lance Desmond for Christmas leave.

It is thus that drama most often happens in life--a light under a
bushel; set in the midst, yet unseen. Vincent, delving in ethnological
depths, saw little or nothing outside his manuscript and maps. Floss
Eden--engrossed in her own drawing-room comedy with Captain Martin--saw
less than nothing, except that 'Mr Sinclair's other native cousin' came
too often to the house. For she turned up her assertive nose at 'native
gentlemen'; and confided to Martin her private opinion that Aunt Thea
went too far in that line. She bothered too much about other people all
round--which was true.

She had bothered a good deal more about Floss Eden, in early days, than
that young lady at all realised. And now--in the intervals of organising
Christmas presents and Christmas guests--she was bothering a good deal
over Roy, whose absence had obviously failed to clear the air.

Not that he was silent or aloof. But his gift of speech overlaid a
reticence deeper than that of the merely silent man; the kind she had
lived with and understood. Once you got past their defences, you were
unmistakably inside:--Vinx, for instance. But with Roy she was aware of
reserves within reserves, which made him the more interesting, but also
the more distracting, when one felt entitled to know the lie of the
land. For, Aruna apart, wasn't he becoming too deeply immersed in his
Indian relations--losing touch, perhaps, with those at home? Did it--or
did it not matter--that, day after day, he was strolling with Aruna,
riding with Dyan, pig-sticking and buck-hunting with the royal cheetahs
and the royal heir to the throne; or plunging neck deep in plans and
possibilities, always in connection with those two? His mail letters
were few and not bulky, as she knew from handling the contents of the
Residency mail-bag. And he very rarely spoke of them all: less than ever
of late. To her ardent nature it seemed inexplicable. Perhaps it was
just part of his peculiar 'inwardness.' She would have liked to feel
sure, however....

Vinx would say it was none of her business. But Lance would be a help.
She