"But—why?"
"To see something of you, old chap. It seems the only way—unless I can persuade you to chuck all this poisonous vapouring, and come back to Jaipur with me. Arúna's waiting—breaking her heart—longing to see you...."
He knew he was rushing his fences; but the mood was on; the chance too good to lose.
Dyán's eyes lightened a moment. Then he shook his head. "I am too much involved."
"You will come, though, in the end," Roy said quietly. "I can wait. Sunday, is it? And we'll bar politics—as we did in the good days. Don't you want to hear of them all at Home?"
"Sometimes—yes. But perhaps—better not. You are a fine fellow, Roy—even to quarrel with. Good-night." They shook hands warmly.
On the threshold, Dyán turned, hesitated; then—in a hurried murmur—asked: "Where is she—what's she doing now ... Tara?"
He was obviously unaware of having used her name: and Roy, though startled, gave no sign.
"She's still in Serbia. She's been simply splendid. Head over ears in it all from the start."—He paused—"Shall I tell her—when I write ... about you?"
Dyán shrugged his shoulders. "Waste of ink and paper. It would not interest her."