their ecstasy of welcome to the sun, in his Hour of Union with
Earth--the Divine Mother, of whom every human mother is, in Eastern
eyes, a part, a symbol, however imperfect.

Yet, beneath her carven tranquillity, heart and spirit were deeply
stirred. For all Nevil's skill in editing the tale of Roy's
championship, she had read his hidden thoughts as unerringly as she had
divined Mrs Bradley's curiosity and faint hostility beneath the veneer
of good manners, not yet imparted to her son.

Helen Despard--wife of a retired Lieut.-Governor--had scores of
Anglo-Indian friends; but not all of them shared her enthusiasm for
India,--her sympathetic understanding of its peoples. Lilámani had too
soon discovered that the ardent declaration, "I love India," was apt to
mean merely that the speaker loved riding and dancing and sunshine and
vast spaces, with 'the real India' for a dim effective background. And
by now, she could almost tell at a glance which were the right and which
the wrong kind of Anglo-Indian, so far as she and Nevil were concerned.
It was not like Helen to inflict the wrong kind on her; but it had all
been Mrs Bradley's doing. She had been tactlessly insistent in her
demand to see the beautiful old garden and the famous artist-Baronet,
who had so boldly flouted tradition. Helen's lame excuses had been
airily dismissed, and the discourtesy of a point-blank refusal was
beyond her.

She had frankly explained matters to her beloved Lilámani as they
strolled together on the lawn, while Roy was enlightening Joe on the
farther side of the yew hedge.

His championship had moved her more profoundly than she dared let him