him?"

"Yes, once--after a lecture. We had a talk--I'll never forget. There's
wonderful stuff in the new volume. I know most of it by heart."

"Spare us, good Lord," muttered Cuthbert--neither prejudiced nor
perverse, but British to the core. "If you start again, I'll retaliate
with Job and the Psalms!"

Roy retorted with the stump of an extinct cigarette. It smote the
offender between the eyebrows, leaving a caste-mark of warm ash to
attest the accuracy of his aim.

"Bull's eye!" Tara scored softly; and Roy, turning on his elbow,
appealed to Broome. "Jeffers, please extinguish him!" ("Jeffers" being a
corruption of G.F., alias Godfather).

Broome laughed. "I had a hazy notion he was your show candidate for the
Indian Civil!"

"He's supposed to be. That's the scandal of it. A mighty lot of interest
he's cultivating in the people and the country he aspires to
administer."

"High art and sloppy sentiment are not in the bond," Cuthbert retorted,
with a wink at Dyán Singh.

That roused Lady Despard. "Insight and sympathy _must_ be in the bond,
unless England and India are to drift apart altogether. The Indian
Civilian should be caught early, like the sailor, and trained on the