"We belong too——" he ventured shyly; and Desmond turned with a kindling eye.
"Good egg! What Province?"
"Rajputana."
"Oh—miles away. Which service?"
Roy looked puzzled. "I—don't know You see—it's my mother—that belongs. My grandfather's a Minister in a big Native State out there."
"Oh—I say!"
There was a shadow of change in his tone. His direct look was a little embarrassing. He seemed to be considering Roy in a new light.
"I—I wouldn't have thought it," he said; and added a shade too quickly: "We don't belong—that way. We're all Anglo-Indians—Frontier Force." (Clearly a fine thing to be, thought Roy, mystified, but impressed.) "Is your father in the Political?"
More conundrums! But, warmed by Desmond's friendliness, Roy grew bolder.
"No. He hates politics. He's just—just a gentleman."