"Oh, my dancing and riding, my temperament and the colour of my eyes—four very important items!" said Roy, affecting a lightness he was far from feeling.
Lance ignored his untimely flippancy. "Have you ever ... happened to mention ... your mother?"
"Not yet. Why——?" The question startled him.
"It occurred to me. I merely wondered——"
"Well, of course, I shall—to-night."
Lance nodded, pensively fingered his riding-crop, and remarked, "D'you imagine now she's going to let you bury yourself up Gilgit way—with me? Besides—you'll hardly care ... shall we call it 'off'?"
"Well you are——! Of course I'll care. I'm damned if we call it 'off.'"
At that the mask vanished from Desmond's face. His hand closed vigorously on Roy's shoulder. "Good man," he said in his normal voice. "I'll count on you. That's a bargain." Their eyes met in the glass, and a look of understanding passed between them. "Feeling a bit above yourself, are you?"
Roy drew a great breath. "It's amazing. I don't yet seem to take it in."
"Oh—you will." The hand closed again on his shoulder. "Now I'll clear out. Time you were clothed and in your right mind."