"He's ten and a half. And he looks bigger'n that. He goes to school. And he's been quite a lot in India."
"Not my India."
"I don't know. He called it 'Mballa. That letter I brought from Mummy was asking if she could bring them for tea."
"Well, I don't want him for tea. I don't like your Boy-on-a-visit. I'll tell Mummy."
"Oh, Roy—you mustn't." She made reproachful eyes at him. "Coz then I couldn't come. And he's quite nice—only rather lumpy. And you can't not like someb'dy you've never seen."
"I can, I often do." The possibility had only just occurred to him. He saw it as a distinction and made the most of it. "Course if you're going to make a fuss——"
Tara's eyes opened wider still. "Oh, Roy, you are——! 'Tisn't me that's making fusses."
Though Roy knew nothing as yet about woman and the last word, he instinctively took refuge in the masculine dignity that spurns descent to the dusty arena when it feels defeat in the air.
"Girls don't never fuss—do they?" he queried suavely. "Let's get on with the Game and not bother about your Boy-of-ten."
"And a half," Tara insisted tactlessly, with her sweetest smile. But when Roy chose to be impassive pin-pricks were thrown away on him.