"Rajputana."

"Oh--miles away. Which service?"

Roy looked puzzled. "I--don't know You see--it's my mother--that
belongs. My grandfather's a Minister in a big Native State out there."

"Oh--I say!"

There was a shadow of change in his tone. His direct look was a little
embarrassing. He seemed to be considering Roy in a new light.

"I--I wouldn't have thought it," he said; and added a shade too
quickly: "_We_ don't belong--that way. We're all Anglo-Indians--Frontier
Force." (Clearly a fine thing to be, thought Roy, mystified, but
impressed.) "Is your father in the Political?"

More conundrums! But, warmed by Desmond's friendliness, Roy grew bolder.

"No. He hates politics. He's just--just a gentleman."

Desmond burst out laughing.

"Top hole! He couldn't do better than that. But--if your mother--he must
have been in India?"

"Afterwards--they went. I've been too. He found Mother in France. He
painted her. He's a rather famous painter."