cousin's voice. And all the while he kept wondering consumedly--_Was_ it
Roy?

He could not bring himself to ask outright. The answer would madden him
either way. And Goodness--or Badness--knew he was miserable enough:
hurt, angry with Fate, with England, even with Tara--lovely and
unattainable! She had spoilt everything: his relation with her, with her
people, with Roy. She had quenched his zeal for their joint crusade. All
the same, he would hold Roy to the India plan; since there was just a
chance--and it would take him away from her. He hated himself for the
thought; but jealousy, in the East, is a consuming fire....

Roy's monologue ceased abruptly. "Your innings, old chap, I think!" he
said. "You're mum as a fish this afternoon. I noticed it in there--I
thought you'd have lots to say to Ramji Lal."

Dyán frowned. He could not for long play at pretences with Roy.

"Those ladies did all the saying. They would not have liked it at all if
I had spoken my true thought,"--he paused and added deliberately--"that
we are all cracking our skulls against stone walls."

"My dear chap----!" Roy stared in frank bewilderment. "What's gone
wrong? Your liver touched up? Too much salmon mayonnaise and cream?"

His light tone goaded Dyán to exasperation. "Quite likely," he retorted,
a sneer lurking in his tone. "Plenty of mayonnaise and cream, for all
parties. But when we make bold to ask for more satisfying things, we
find 'No Indians need apply.'"