them. But they made it clear, quite unaggressively, that the real point
was to go alone.

Day after day, from her window, Lilámani watched them go, across the
radiant sweep of snow-covered lawn; and, for the first time, where Roy
was concerned, she knew the prick of jealousy,--a foretaste of the day
when her love would no longer fill his life. Ashamed of her own
weakness, she kept it hid--or fancied she did so; but the little
stabbing ache persisted, in spite of shame and stoic resolves.

Tara and Christine also knew the horrid pang; but they knew neither
shame not stoic resolves. Roy mustn't suspect, of course; but they told
each other, in strictest confidence, that they hated Desmond; firmly
believing they spoke the truth. So it was particularly vexatious to find
that the moment he favoured them with the most casual attention, they
were at his feet.

But that was their own private affair. Whether they resented, or whether
they adored, the boys remained entirely unconcerned, entirely absorbed
in each other. It was Desmond's opinion of them that mattered supremely
to Roy; in particular--Desmond's opinion of his mother. After those
first puzzling remarks and silences, Roy had held his peace; had not
even shown Desmond her picture. His invitation accepted, he had simply
waited, in transcendent faith, for the moment of revelation. And now he
had his reward. After a prelude of mutual embarrassment, Lance had
succumbed frankly to Lady Sinclair's unexpected charm and her shy
irresistible overtures to friendship:--so frankly, that he was able,
now, to hint at his earlier perplexity.

He had seen no Indian women, he explained, except in bazaars or in