;
to say we live in blinkers, that we've no intellectual pursuits, no
interest in 'this wonderful country.' I confess, to some of us, India
and its people are holy terrors. As for art and music and
theatres--where _are_ they, except what we make for ourselves, in our
indefatigable, amateurish way. Can't _you_ see--you, with your
imaginative insight--that we have virtually nothing but each other? If
we spent our days bowing and scraping and dining and dancing with due
decorum, there'd be a boom in suicides and the people in clover at Home
would placidly wonder why----?"

"But do listen. I'm not blaming--any of you," he exclaimed, distracted
by her complete misreading of his mood.

"Well, you're criticising--in your heart. And your opinion's worth
something--to some of us. Even if we _do_ occasionally--play at being in
love, there's always the offchance it may turn out to be ... the real
thing." She drew an audible breath and added, in her lighter vein: "You
know, you're a very fair hand at it yourself--in your restrained,
fakirish fashion----"

"But I don't--I'm not----" he stammered desperately. "And why d'you call
me a fakir? It's not the first time. And it's not true. I believe in
life--and the fulness of life."

"I'm glad. I'm not keen on fakirs. But I only meant--one can't picture
you playing round, the way heaps of men do with girls ... who allow them
..."

"No. That's true. I never----"

"What--never? Or is it 'hardly ever'?"

She leaned a shade nearer, her beautiful pale face etherealised by
starshine. And that infinitesimal movement, her low tone, the sheer
magnetism of her, swept him from his moorings. Words low and passionate
came all in a rush.

"What _are_, you doing with me? Why d'you tantalise me. Whether you're
there or not there, your face haunts me--your voice. It may be play for
you--it isn't for me----"

"I've never said--I've never implied--it was play ... for _me_----"

This time perceptibly she leaned nearer, mute confession in her look,
her tone; and delicate fire ran in his veins....

Next moment his arms were round her; trembling, yet vehement; crushing
her against him almost roughly. No mistaking the response of her lips;
yet she never stirred; only the fingers of her right hand closed sharply
on his arm. Having hold of her at last, after all that inner tumult and
resistance, he could hardly let her go. Yet--strangely--even in the
white heat of fervour, some detached fragment, at