"Hark at the Cynic!" jeered young Cuthbert. "Were you forty on the 9th,
or was it forty-five?"

Roy grinned. "Good old Cuthers! Don't exhaust yourself trying to be
funny! Fish out the drinks. We've earned them, haven't we--High Tower
Princess?" The last, confidentially, for Tara's ear alone.

And Dyán, seeing the smile in her eyes, felt jealousy pierce him like a
red-hot wire.

The supper, provided by Roy and Dyán, was no scratch wayside meal, but
an ambrosial affair:--salmon mayonnaise, ready mixed; glazed joints of
chicken; strawberries and cream; lordly chocolate boxes; sparkling
moselle--and syphons for the abstemious.

It was a lively meal: Roy, dropped from the clouds, the film of the East
gone from his face, was simply Nevil again; even as young Cuthbert, with
his large build and thatch of tawny hair, was a juvenile edition of
Broome. And the older man, watching them, bandying chaff with them,
renewed his youth for one careless golden hour.

The punts were ranged alongside; and they all ate together, English and
Indian. No irksome caste rules on this side of the water; no hint of
condescension in the friendly attitude of young Oxford. Nothing to jar
the over-sensibility of young India--prone to suspect slight where no
thought of it exists; too often, also, treated to exhibitions of
ill-bred arrogance that undo in an hour the harmonising work of years.

Dyán sat by Tara, anticipating her lightest need; courage rising by