of
age; her manner was that of a woman rather than of a girl--of one who
was in life and not on the outskirts.

"We rather pride ourselves," she said, leading the way into the
drawing-room, "upon having the best house in Loango. You will, I think,
be more comfortable here than anywhere."

She turned and looked at him with a slow, grave smile. She was noticing
that, of the men who had been in this drawing-room, none had seemed so
entirely at his ease as this one.

"I must ask you to believe that I was thinking of your comfort and not
of my own."

"Yes, I know you were," she answered. "Our circle is rather limited,
as you will find, and very few of the neighbours have time to think of
their houses. Most of them are missionaries, and they are so busy; they
have a large field, you see."

"Very--and a weedy one, I should think."

He was looking round, noting with well-trained glance the thousand
little indescribable touches that make a charming room. He knew his
ground. He knew the date and the meaning of every little ornament--the
title and the writer of each book--the very material with which the
chairs were covered; and he knew that all was good--all arranged with
that art which is the difference between ignorance and knowledge.

"I see you have all the new books."

"Yes, we have books and magazines; but, of course, we live quite out of
the world."

She paused, leaving the conversation with him, as in the hands of one
who knew his business.

"I," he said, filling up the pause, "have hitherto lived in the
world--right in it. There is a lot of dust and commotion; the dust gets
into people's eyes and blinds them; the commotion wears them out; and
perhaps, after all, Loango is better!"

He spoke with the easy independence of the man of the world, accustomed
to feel his way in strange places--not heeding what opinion he might
raise--what criticism he might brave. He was glancing round him all the
while, noting things, and wondering for whose benefit this pretty
room had been evolved in the heart of a savage country. Perhaps he had
assimilated erroneous notions of womankind in the world of which
he spoke; perhaps he had never met any of those women whose natural
refinement urges them to surround themselves, even in solitude, with
pretty things, and prompts them to dress as neatly and becomingly as
their circumstances allow for the edification of no man.

"I never abuse Loango," she answered; "such abuse is apt t