Instinctively, she drew her own out of reach. A ghost of a shiver ran
through her. "No--no. I don't ... I never have.... If I've misled you,
I'm ever so sorry."

"If you are sorry--_give me hope_," his voice, his eyes implored her.
"You come so near--then you draw back; like offering a thirsty man a cup
of water he must not drink. Give me only a little time--a little
chance----"

She shook her head. "Please believe me. I'm _not_ the wavering kind. I'm
keen to go on being friends--because of Roy. But, truthfully, it's no
use hoping for anything more--ever."

Her patent sincerity, the sweet seriousness of her face, carried
conviction. And conviction turned his ardour to bitterness.

"Why no use--_ever_?" he flung out, maddened by her emphasis on the
word.

"I suppose--because I know my own mind."

"No. Because--_I_ am Indian." His voice was changed and harsh. "We are
all British subjects--oh yes--when convenient! But the door is opened
only--so far. If we make bold to ask for the best, it is slammed in our
faces."

"Dyán Singh, if I have hurt you, it was quite unintentional. You know
that. But now, _with_ intention, you are hurting me." Her dignity and
gentleness, the justice of her reproof, smote him silent; and she went