"If you are sorry—give me hope," his voice, his eyes implored her. "You come so near—then you draw back; like offering a thirsty man a cup of water he must not drink. Give me only a little time—a little chance——"
She shook her head. "Please believe me. I'm not the wavering kind. I'm keen to go on being friends—because of Roy. But, truthfully, it's no use hoping for anything more—ever."
Her patent sincerity, the sweet seriousness of her face, carried conviction. And conviction turned his ardour to bitterness.
"Why no use—ever?" he flung out, maddened by her emphasis on the word.
"I suppose—because I know my own mind."
"No. Because—I am Indian." His voice was changed and harsh. "We are all British subjects—oh yes—when convenient! But the door is opened only—so far. If we make bold to ask for the best, it is slammed in our faces."
"Dyán Singh, if I have hurt you, it was quite unintentional. You know that. But now, with intention, you are hurting me." Her dignity and gentleness, the justice of her reproof, smote him silent; and she went on: "You forget, it is the same among your own people. Aunt Lila was cast out—for always. With an English girl that could never be."
Too distraught for argument, he harked back to the personal issue. "With you there would be no need. I would live altogether like an Englishman——"
"Oh, stop!" she broke out desperately. "Don't start all over again——"
"Look alive, you two slackers," shouted Roy, from the far corner of the road. "I'm responsible for keeping the team together."