felt him draw one big breath.

"Have you got to whack me--now, Daddy?" he asked, still in his small
voice.

His father's hand closed on his arm. "No. You were right, Roy," he said.
"I would have hit harder. Ill-mannered little beast! All the same----"

A pause. He, no less than Roy, found speech difficult. He had fancied
himself, by now, inured to this kind of jar--so frequent in the early
years of his daringly unconventional marriage. It seemed he was
mistaken. He had been vaguely on edge all the afternoon. What young Joe
had rudely blurted out, Mrs Bradley's manner had tacitly expressed. He
had succeeded in smothering his own sensations, only to be confronted
with the effect of it all on Roy--who must somehow be made to
understand.

"The fact is, old man," he went on, trying to speak in his normal voice,
"young Bradley and a good many of his betters spend years in India
without coming to know very much about the real people over there.
You'll understand why when you're older. They all have Indians for
servants, and they see Indians working in shops and villages, just like
plenty of our people do here. But they don't often meet many of the
other sort--like Mummy and Grandfather and Uncle Rama--except sometimes
in England. And then--they make stupid mistakes--just because they don't
know better. But they needn't be rude about it, like Joe; and I'm glad
you punched him--hard."

"So'm I. Fearfully glad." He stood upright now, his head erect:--proud
of his father's approval, and being treated as "man to man." "But,