A certain Mr Ramji Lal had been asked to read a paper on the revival of
Indian arts and crafts. Dyán had been looking forward to it keenly; but
now, sore and miserable as he was--all sense of purpose and direction
gone--he felt out of tune with the whole thing.

He would have been thankful to cry off. Roy, however, must not suspect
the truth--Roy, who himself might be the stumbling-block. The suspicion
stung like a scorpion; though it soothed a little his hurt pride of
race.

Embittered and antagonistic, he listened only with half his mind to his
own countryman's impassioned appeal for renewal of the true Swadeshi[1]
spirit in India; renewal of her own innate artistic culture, her faith
in the creative power of thought and ideas. That spirit--said the
speaker--has no war-cries, no shoutings in the market-place. It is a way
of looking at life. Its true genesis and inspiration is in the home.
Like flame, newly-lit, it needs cherishing. Instead, it is in danger of
being stamped out by false Swadeshi--an imitation product of the West;
noisy and political, crying out for more factories, more councils;
caring nothing for true Indian traditions of art and life. It will not
buy goods from Birmingham and Manchester; but it will create Birmingham
and Manchester in India. In effect, it is the age-old argument whether
the greatness of a nation comes from the dominion of men or
machinery....

For all this, Dyán had cared intensely twenty-four hours ago. Now it
seemed little better than a rhapsody of fine phrases--'sounding brass
and tinkling cymbals.'

Could the mere word of a woman so swiftly and violently transform the