ashions; but superfluous--from Roy's
point of view. When he wanted a quiet 'confab' with Lance, one or both
were sure to come strolling in and hang round, jerking out aimless
remarks. When he wanted a still quieter 'confab' with his maturing
novel, their voices and footsteps echoed too clearly in the verandahs
and the scantily furnished rooms. But did he venture to grumble at these
minor drawbacks, Lance would declare he was demoralised by floating
loose in an Earthly Paradise and becoming a mere appendage to a pencil.

There was a measure of truth in the last. As a matter of fact, after two
months of uninterrupted work at Udaipur, Roy had unwarily hinted at a
risk of becoming embedded in his too congenial surroundings;--and that
careless admission had sealed his fate.

Lance Desmond, with his pointed phrase, had virtually dug him out of his
chosen retreat; had written temptingly of the 'last of the polo,' of
prime pig-sticking at Kapurthala, of the big Gymkhana that was to wind
up the season:--a rare chance for Roy to exhibit his horsemanship. And
again, in more serious mood, he had written of increasing anxiety over
his Sikhs with that 'infernal agitation business' on the increase, and
an unbridled native press shouting sedition from the house-tops. A nice
state of chaos India was coming to! He hoped to goodness they wouldn't
be swindled out of their leave; but Roy had better 'roll up' soon, so
as to be on the spot, in case of ructions; not packed away in
cotton-wool down there.

A few letters in this vein had effectually rent the veil of illusion
that shielded Roy from aggressive actualities. In Udaipur there had been
no hysterical press; no sedition flaunting on the house-tops. One hadn't
arrived at the twentieth century, even. Except for a flourishing
hospital, a few hideous modern interiors, and a Resident--who was very
good friends with Vinx--one stepped straight back into the leisurely,
colourful, frankly brutal life of the middle ages. And Roy had fallen a
willing victim to the charms of Udaipur:--her white palaces, white
temples, and white landing-stages, flanked with marble elephants,
embosomed in wooded hills, and reflected in the blue untroubled depths
of the Pichola Lake. Immersed in his novel, he had not known a dull or
lonely hour in that enchanted backwater of Rajasthan.

His large vague plans for getting in touch with the thoughtful elements
of Calcutta and Bombay had yielded to the stronger magneti