not, so far, come across many specimens of these pathetic
half-and-halfs, who seemed to inhabit a racial No-Man's-Land. But Lahore
was full of them; minor officials in the Railway and the Post Office;
living, more or less, in a substratum of their own kind. He gathered
that they were regarded as a 'problem' by the thoughtful few, and simply
turned down by the rest. He felt an acute sympathy for them: also--in
hidden depths--a vague distaste. Most of those he had encountered were
so obviously of no particular caste, in either country's estimate of the
word, that he had never associated them with himself. He saw himself,
rather, as of double caste; a fusion of the best in both races. The
writer of that wonderful letter had said he was different; and
presumably she knew. Whether the average Anglo-Indian would see any
difference, he had not the remotest idea; and, so far, he had scarcely
given the matter a thought.

Here, however, it was thrust upon his attention; nor had he failed to
notice that Lance never mentioned the Jaipur cousins except when they
were alone:--whether by chance or design, he did not choose to ask. And
if either of the other fellows had noticed his mother's photograph, or
felt a glimmer of curiosity, no word had been said.

After all, what concern was it of these chance-met folk? He was nothing
to them; and to him they were mainly a pleasant change from the
absorbing business of his novel and the problems of India in transition.

And the poor little girl in the skimpy frock was an unconscious fragment
of that problem. Too pathetic to see how she tried not to look round
hopefully whenever masculine footsteps came her way. Why shouldn't he
give her a pleasant surprise?

She succeeded, this time, in not looking round; so the surprise came off
to his satisfaction. She was nervous and unpractised, and he constantly
found her feet where they had no business to be. But sooner than hurt
her feelings, he piloted her twice round the room before stopping; and
found himself next to Mrs Hunter-Ranyard, who 'snuggled up' to him (the
phrase was Barnard's) and proffered consolation after her kind.

"Bad boy! You missed the cream of the afternoon, but you're not _quite_
too late. I'm free for the next."

Roy, fairly cornered, could only bow and smile his acceptance. And after
his arduous prelude, Mrs Ranyard's dancing was an effortless delight--if
only she would not spoil it by her unceasing ripple of talk. His l