Desmond burst out laughing.
"Top hole! He couldn't do better than that. But—if your mother—he must have been in India?"
"Afterwards—they went. I've been too. He found Mother in France. He painted her. He's a rather famous painter."
"What name?"
"Sinclair."
"Oh, I've heard of him.—And your people are always at home. Lucky beggar!" He was silent a moment watching Roy unlace his boot. Then he asked suddenly, in a voice that tried to sound casual: "I say—have you told any of the other boys—about India—and your Mother?"
"No—why? Is there any harm?" Roy was on the defensive at once.
"Well—no. With the right sort, it wouldn't make a scrap of difference. But you can see what some of 'em are like—Bennet Ma. and his crew. Making a dead set at that poor blighter, just because he isn't their colour——"
Roy started. "Was it only because of that?" he asked with emphasis.
"'Course it was. Plain as a pike-staff. I suppose they'd bullied him into cheeking them. And they were hacking him on to his knees—forcing him to salaam." Twin sparks sprang alight in his eyes. "That sort of thing—makes me feel like a kettle on the boil. Wish I'd had a boiling kettle to empty over Bennet."