as little to show
that it was written from Mombassa, on the verge of a dangerous
expedition into the interior, rather than from Oxford on the eve of a
football match. But she read them over and over again. They were very
matter of fact, and she smiled as she thought of Julia Crowley's
indignation if she had seen them.

From her recollection of Alec's words, Lucy tried to make out the scene
that first met her brother's eyes. She seemed to stand by his side,
leaning over the rail, as the ship approached the harbour. The sea was
blue with a blue she had never seen, and the sky was like an inverted
bowl of copper. The low shore, covered with bush, stretched away in the
distance; a line of waves was breaking on the reef. They came in sight
of the island of Mombassa, with the overgrown ruins of a battery that
had once commanded the entrance; and there were white-roofed houses,
with deep verandas, which stood in little clearings with coral cliffs
below them. On the opposite shore thick groves of palm-trees rose with
their singular, melancholy beauty. Then as the channel narrowed, they
passed an old Portuguese fort which carried the mind back to the bold
adventurers who had first sailed those distant seas, and directly
afterwards a mass of white buildings that reached to the edge of the
lapping waves. They saw the huts of the native town, wattled and
thatched, nestling close together; and below them was a fleet of native
craft. On the jetty was the African crowd, shouting and jostling, some
half-naked, and some strangely clad, Arabs from across the sea,
Swahilis, and here and there a native from the interior.

In course of time other letters came from George, but Alec wrote no
more. The days passed slowly. Lady Kelsey returned from the Riviera.
Dick came back from Naples to enjoy the pleasures of the London season.
He appeared thoroughly to enjoy his idleness, signally falsifying the
predictions of those who had told him that it was impossible to be
happy without regular work. Mrs. Crowley settled down once more in her
house in Norfolk Street. During her absence she had written reams by
every post to Lucy, and Lucy had looked forward very much to seeing her
again. The little American was almost the only one of her friends with
whom she did not feel shy. The apartness which her nationality gave her,
made Mrs. Crowley more easy to talk to. She was too fond of Lucy to pity
her. The general election came before it was expected, an