"Must it be October—so soon?" she asked.
He told her of Dyán, and she sighed. "Poor Dyán! I wonder? It is so difficult—even with the best kind—this mixing of English education and Indian life. I hope it will make no harm for those two——"
Then they started, almost like lovers; for the drooping branches rustled and Tara stood before them—a very vision of June; in her straight frock of Delphinium blue; one shell-pink rose in her hat and its counterpart in her waist-belt. Canvas shoes and tennis-racquet betrayed her fell design on Roy.
"Am I despritly superfluous?" she queried, smiling from one to the other.
"Quite too despritly," Roy assured her with emphasis.
She wrinkled her nose at him, so far as its delicate aquiline would permit. "Speak for yourself, spoilt boy!"
But she favoured him with her left hand, which he retained, while she stooped over the hammock and kissed Lilámani on both cheeks. Then she stood up and gently disengaged her hand.
"Christine's to blame. She guessed you were here. I came over in hopes of tennis. It's just perfect. Not too hot."
"Still more perfect in here, lazing with Mummy," said graceless Roy.
"I disown you, I am ashamed!" Lilámani rebuked him only half in jest. "No more lazing now. I have done with you. Only you have to get me out of this."