The implied reproach smote him sharply; but how could he confess to her—standing there in her queenly assurance—the impromptu nature of last night's proceedings?
"Well I—I'm telling you now," he stammered. "Last night I simply—didn't think. And before ... the fact is ... I can't talk of her, except to those who knew her ... who understand...."
"You mean—is she—not alive?"
"No. The War killed her—instead of killing me."
Her hand closed on his with a mute assurance of sympathy. If they could only leave it so! But—her people...?
"You must try and talk of her—to me, Roy," she urged, gently but inexorably. "Was it—out here?"
"No. In France. They came out for a visit, when I was six. I've known nothing of India till now—except through her."
"But—since you came out ... hasn't it struck you that ... Anglo-Indians feel rather strongly...?"
"I don't know—and I didn't care a rap what they felt," he flung out with sudden warmth. "Now, of course—I do care. But ... to suppose she could ... stand in my way, seems an insult to her. If you're one of the people who feel strongly, of course ... there's an end of it. You're free."
"Free? Roy—don't you realise ... I care. You've made me care."