"M-yes. I don't quite know why."
Broome was silent a moment. "After all—it's natural. Put yourself in his place, Roy.—He sees India taking a stronger hold of you each year. He knows you've a deal of your mother and grandfather in your make-up. He may very well be afraid of the magnet proving too strong at close quarters. And I suspect he's jealous—for England. He'd like to see your soul centred on Bramleigh Beeches: and I more than suspect they'd both prefer to keep you nearer home."
Roy looked distressed. "Hard lines. I hadn't got to that yet. But it wouldn't be for always. And—there's George and Jerry sprouting up."
"I gather that George and Jerry are not precisely—Roy——"
"Jeffers—you old sinner! I can't flatter myself——!"
"Don't be blatantly British, Roy! You can flatter yourself—you know as well as I do!"
"I know it's undiplomatic to contradict my elders!" countered Roy, lunging after pipe and pouch.
"Especially convenient godfathers, with press connections?"
Roy fronted him squarely, laughter lurking in his eyes. "Are you going to be convenient—that's the rub! Will you give Dad a notion I may turn out something decent when I've scraped up some crumbs of knowledge——?"
Broome leaned forward and laid a large reassuring hand on his knee. "Trust me to pull it off, old man—provided Mother approves. We couldn't press it against her wish—either of us."