How sharply they tugged at his middle-aged heart, these casual and
opinionated young things, with their follies and fanaticisms, their
Jacob's ladders hitched perilously to the stars; with their triumphs and
failures and disillusions all ahead of them; airily impervious to
proffered help and advice from those who would agonise to serve them if
they could....

A jarring bump in the small of his back cut short his flagrantly
Victorian musings. Dyán's punt was the offender; and Dyán himself,
clutching the pole that had betrayed him, was almost pitched into the
river.

His achievement was greeted by a shout of laughter, and an ironic
"Played indeed!" from Cuthbert Gordon--Broome's grandson. Roy, tumbled
from some starry dream of his own, flashed out imperiously: "Look alive,
you blithering idiot. 'Who are you a-shoving'?"

The Rajput's face darkened; but before he could retort, Tara had risen
and stepped swiftly to his side. Her fingers closed on the pole; and she
smiled straight into his clouded eyes.

"Let _me_, please. I'm sick of lazing and fearfully keen. And I can't
allow my Mother to be drownded by anyone _but_ me. I'd be obliged to
murder the other body, which would be awkward--for us both!"

"Miss Despard--there is no danger----" he muttered--impervious to
humour; and--as if by chance--one of his hands half covered hers.

"Let go," she commanded, so low that no one else knew she had spoken; so
sternly that Dyán's fingers unclosed as if they had touched fire.