He knew he was rushing his fences; but the mood was on; the chance too good to lose.

Dyan’s eyes lightened a moment.  Then he shook his head.  “I am too much involved.”

“You will come, though, in the end,” Roy said quietly.  “I can wait.  Sunday, is it?  And we’ll bar politics—­as we did in the good days.  Don’t you want to hear of them all at Home?”

“Sometimes—­yes.  But perhaps—­better not.  You are a fine fellow, Roy—­even to quarrel with.  Good-night.”  They shook hands warmly.

On the threshold, Dyan turned, hesitated; then—­in a hurried murmur—­asked:  “Where is she—­what’s she doing now ...  Tara?”

He was obviously unaware of having used her name:  and Roy, though startled, gave no sign.

“She’s still in Serbia.  She’s been simply splendid.  Head over ears in it all from the start.”—­He paused—­“Shall I tell her—­when I write ... about you?”

Dyan shrugged his shoulders.  “Waste of ink and paper.  It would not interest her.”

“It would.  I know Tara.  What you are doing now would hurt her—­keenly.”

“Tcha!” The sharp sound expressed sheer unbelief.  It also expressed pain.  “Good-night,” he added, for the third time; and went out—­leaving Roy electrified; a-tingle with the hope of success at last.

Tara was not forgotten; though Dyan had been trying to pretend she was—­even to himself.  Ten chances to one, she was still at the core everything; even his present incongruous activities....

Roy paced the room; his imagination alight; his own recoil from the conjunction, overborne by immediate concern for Dyan.  Unable to forget her—­who could?—­he had thrust the pain of remembering into the dark background of his mind; and there it remained—­a hard knot of soreness and bitterness—­as Aruna had said.  And all that bottled-up bitterness had been vented against England—­an unconscious symbol of Tara, desired yet withheld; while the intensity of his thwarted passion sought and found an outlet in fervent adoration of his country visualised as woman.

Right or wrong—­that was how Roy saw it.  And the argument seemed psychologically sound.  Cruel to be kind, he must touch the point of pain; draw the hidden thing into the open; and so reawaken the old Dyan, who could arraign the new one far more effectually than could Roy himself or another.  Seized with his idea, he indulged in a more hopeful letter to Aruna; and had scarcely patience to wait for Sunday.

* * * * *

In leisurely course it arrived—­that last Sunday of the Great War.  The Chandni Chowk was a-bubble with strange and stirring rumours; but the day waned and the evening waned—­and no Dyan appeared.

On Monday morning—­still no word:  but news, so tremendous, flashed half across the world, that Dyan and his mysterious defection flickered like a match at midday.