im a few seconds to
recover himself.

Then: "What do you mean by it, Roy?" he asked; and this time his voice
was really stern. It hurt more than the bruises. "Gentlemen don't hammer
their guests." This was an unexpected blow. And it wasn't fair. How
could he explain before "all those"? His cheeks were burning, his head
was aching; and tears, that must not be allowed to fall, were pricking
like needles under his lids.

It was Tara who spoke--still clutching Prince, lest he overwhelm Roy and
upset his hardly maintained dignity.

"Joe made him angry--he _did_," she thrust in with feminine
officiousness; and was checked by her mother's warning finger.

Mrs Bradley--long and thin and beaky--bore down upon her battered son,
who edged away sullenly from proffered caresses.

Sir Nevil, not daring to meet the humorous eye of Cuthbert Broome--still
contemplated the dishevelled dignity of his own small son--half puzzled,
half vexed.

"You've done it now, Roy. Say you're sorry," he prompted; his voice a
shade less stern than he intended.

Roy shook his head.

"It's him to say--not me."

"Did he begin it?"

"No."

"Of course he didn't," snapped the injured mother. "He's been properly
brought up," which was not exactly polite, but she was beside
herself--simply an irate mother-creature, all beak and ruffled feathers.
"You deserve to be whipped. You've hurt him badly."

"Oh, dry up, mother," Joe murmured behind his sanguinary handkerchief,
edging still further away from maternal fussings and possible catechism.

Nevil Sinclair saw clearly that his son would neither apologise nor
explain. At heart he suspected young Bradley, if only on account of his
insufferable mother, but the laws of hospitality must be upheld.

"Go to your own room, Roy," he said with creditable severity, "and stay
there till I come."

Roy gave him one look--mutely reproachful. Then--to every one's surprise
and Tara's delight--he walked straight up to the Enemy.

"I _did_ hammer hardest. 'Pologise!"

The older boy mumbled something suspiciously like the fatal word: a
suspicion confirmed by Roy's next remark: "I'm sorry your blazer's
spoilt. But you made me."

And the elders, watching with amused approbation, had no inkling that
the words were spoken not by Roy Sinclair but by Prithvi Raj.

The Enemy, twice humbled, answered nothing; and Roy,--his dignity
unimpaired by such trifles as a lump on his cheek, a dishevelled tie and
one stocking