Shouted down again, he vanished through a side exit; and, in the turmoil that followed, Roy's hand closed securely on Dyán's arm. Throughout the stormy interlude, he had stood rigidly still: a pained, puzzled frown contracting his brows. Yet it was plain he would have slipped away without a word, but for Roy's detaining grasp.
"You don't go running off—now I've found you," said he good-humouredly. "I've things to say. Come along to my place and hear them."
Dyán jerked his imprisoned arm. "Very sorry. I have—important duties."
"To-morrow night then? I'm lodging with Krishna Lal. And—look here, don't mention me to your friend the philosopher! I know more about him than you might suppose. If you still care a damn for me—and the others, do what I ask—and keep your mouth shut——"
Dyán's frown was hostile; but his voice was low and troubled. "For God's sake leave me alone, Roy. Of course—I care. But that kind of caring is carnal weakness. We, who are dedicated, must rise above such weakness, above pity and slave-morality, giving all to the Mother——"
"Dyán—have you forgotten—my mother?" Roy pressed his advantage in the same low tone.
"No. Impossible. She was Dévi—Goddess; loveliest and kindest——"
"Well, in her name, I ask you—come to-morrow evening and have a talk."
Dyán was silent; then, for the first time, he looked Roy straight in the eyes. "In her name—I will come. Now let me go."
Roy let him go. He had achieved little enough. But for a start it was not so bad.