suspicion confirmed by Roy's next remark: "I'm sorry your blazer's
spoilt. But you made me."

And the elders, watching with amused approbation, had no inkling that
the words were spoken not by Roy Sinclair but by Prithvi Raj.

The Enemy, twice humbled, answered nothing; and Roy,--his dignity
unimpaired by such trifles as a lump on his cheek, a dishevelled tie and
one stocking curled lovingly round his ankle--walked leisurely away,
with never a glance in the direction of the "grown-ups," who had no
concern whatever with this--the most important event of his life----

Tara--torn between wrath and admiration--watched him go. In her eyes he
was a hero, a victim of injustice and the density of grown-ups.

She promptly released Prince, who bounded after his master. She wanted
to go too. It was all her fault, bringing that horrid boy to tea. She
did hope Roy would explain things properly. But boys were stupid
sometimes and she wanted to make sure. While her mother was tactfully
suggesting a homeward move, she slipped up to Sir Nevil and insinuated a
small hand into his.

"Uncle Nevil, _do_ believe," she whispered urgently. "Truly it isn't
fair----"

His quick frown warned her to say no more; but the pressure of his hand
comforted her a little.

All the same she hated going home. She hated 'that putrid boy'--a
forbidden adjective; but what else _could_ you call him? She was glad he