umble into marriage in a headlong impulse of
passion, on a superficial six weeks' acquaintance; and the shy,
spiritual side of him felt alarmed, restive, even a little repelled.

In a measure, Rose was right when she dubbed him fakir. Artist though he
was, and all too human, there lurked in him a nascent streak of the
ascetic, accentuated by his mother's bidding, and his own strong desire
to keep in touch with her and with things not seen.

And there, on his writing-table, stood her picture mutely reproaching
him. With a pang he realised how completely she had been crowded out of
his thoughts during those weeks of ferment. What would she think of it
all? The question--what would Rose think of her simply did not arise.
She was still supreme, she who had once said, "So long as you are
thinking first of me, you may be sure That Other has not yet arrived".

Was Rose Arden--for all her beauty and witchery--genuinely That Other?

Beguiled by her visible perfections, he had taken her spiritually for
granted. And he knew well enough that it is not through the senses a man
first approaches love--if he is capable of that high and complex
emotion; but rather through imagination and admiration, sympathy and
humour. As it was, he had not a glimmering idea how she would consort
with his very individual inner self. Yet matters were virtually
settled....

And suddenly, like a javelin, one word pierced his brain--Lance!
Whatever there was between them, he felt sure his news would not please
Lance, to say the least of it. And, as for their Kashmir plan...?

Why the devil was life such a confoundedly complex affair? By rights, he
ought to be 'all over himself', having won such a wife. Was it something
wrong with him? Or did all accepted lovers feel like this--the morning
after? A greater number, perhaps, than poets or novelists or lovers
themselves are ever likely to admit. Very certainly he would not admit
his present sensations to any living soul.

Springing out of bed, he shouted for _chota hazri_[28] and shaving
water; drank thirstily; ate hungrily; and had just cleared his face of
lather when Lance came in, booted and spurred, bringing with him his
magnetic atmosphere of vitality and vigour.

Standing behind Roy, he ran his left hand lightly up the back of his
hair, gripped the extra thickness at the top, and gave it a distinct
tug; friendly, but sharp enough to make Roy wince.

"Slacker! Waster! You ought to have been out r