And that--Vincent Dering asked himself--was that love?
Laila Bonaventura's voice came back to make him certain of one thing. That would not be her version of the old, old story; and the knowledge made him, somehow, more content with his world.
Meanwhile another man in yellow and silver lace was being haunted by a girl's voice, which had spoken of things which no decent woman of his own race would have mentioned; yet which had spoken to him with an equality which no Englishwoman would have allowed herself. And as for Englishmen! The recollection of Father Narâyan's face as he carried the girl off made Roshan Khân curse under his breath.
But the girl herself had been different. He literally did not know what to think; and the desire for someone else's opinion grew so strong that, finally, with a curious mixture of reluctance and triumph, he forsook the straight road to the Fort, and turned his horse's head towards his grandmother's house. She was at least a woman; she might understand and judge better than he.
His first sight of her, however, in unprepared toilette, minus the green satin trousers which gave such dignity to her rotund little figure, minus all pretence at pomp, dirty, untidy, unkempt both in her surroundings and herself, made him feel what a fool he was. The more so when she began by resenting his summary visitation, especially in uniform, which, she asserted, made her feel, even at her age, as if she were committing the indiscretion of seeing a stranger!
What could a woman like that know? Yet having come, he might as well go through with his errand; so he cut short her upbraidings by saying without preamble:
"I have seen my cousin. I spoke to her, and--and she spoke back again."
Mumtâza Mahal looked at him for a moment incredulously, then she cracked all her finger joints over his head, or as nearly over it as her height would allow.
"Said I not so?" she asked prophetically. "And when will the wedding be?"
"Wedding!" he echoed petulantly; "there is no talk of wedding. I have but seen her."