Yet a word of warning, spoken at the wrong moment, in the wrong tone, might be disastrously misunderstood; and the distracting sense of being purely responsible for his own trouble, stung him to renewed irritation. All capacity for work had been dispelled by that vexatiously engaging son of his, with his heart in India and his head among the stars....
Weary of pacing, he took out his pipe and sat down in the window-seat to fill it. He was interrupted by the sound of an unmistakable footstep; and the response of his whole being justified to admiration Lilámani's assurance that his hidden trouble implied no lightest reflection on herself. Lilámani and irritation simply could not co-exist within him; and he was on his feet when she opened the door.
She did not come forward at once. Pushing it shut with both hands, she stood so—a hovering question in her eyes. It recalled, with a tender pang, the earlier days of worshipful aloofness, when only by special invitation would she intimately approach her lord.
That she might guess his thought he held out his arms. "Come along—English wife!"
It had been their private password. But her small teeth imprisoned her lip.
"No—King of me—Indian wife: making too much trouble again!"
"Lilámani! How dare you! Come here."
His attempt at sternness took effect. In one swift rush—sari blown backward—she came: and he, smitten with self-reproach, folded her close; while she clung to him in mute passionate response.
"Beloved," she whispered. "Not to worry any more in your secret heart. I told—he understands."
"Roy——? My darling! But what——?" His incoherence was a shameless admission of relief. "You couldn't—you haven't told him——?"