And as she read on, she became aware of a new sensation. This was
another kind of Roy. On the first page he was pouring out his heart in
careless unformed phrases. By the end of the second, his tale had hold
of him; he was enjoying--perhaps unaware--the exercise of a
newly-awakened gift. And, looking up, at last, to share it with Nevil,
she caught him in the act of tracing a curve of her sari in mid-air.

With a playful movement--pure Eastern--she drew it half over her face.

"Oh, Nevil--you wicked! I never guessed----"

"That was the beauty of it. I make my salaams to Roy! What's he been up
to that it takes four sheets to confess?"

"Not confessing. Telling a tale. It will surprise you."

"Let's have a look."

She gave him the letter; and while he read it, she intently watched his
face. "The boy'll write--I shouldn't wonder," was his verdict, handing
back her treasure, with an odd half-smile in his eyes.

"And you were hoping--he would paint?" she said, answering his thought.

"Yes, but--scarcely expecting. Sons are a perverse generation. I'm glad
he's tumbled on his feet and found a pal."

"Yes. It is good."