cartridge-bags, and the old aristocrat took his newspaper on
to the terrace.

Millicent followed him almost at once.

"Sir John," she said, "I have had a letter from Africa."

Did she take it for granted that he knew this already? Was this
spontaneous? Had Jack told her to do it?

These questions flashed through the old man's mind as his eyes rested on
her pretty face.

He was beginning to be afraid of this girl: which showed his wisdom. For
the maiden beautiful is a stronger power in the world than the strong
man. The proof of which is that she gets her own way more often than the
strong man gets his.

"From Africa?" repeated Sir John Meredith, with a twitching lip. "And
from whom is your letter, my dear young lady?"

His face was quite still, his old eyes steady, as he waited for the
answer.

"From Jack."

Sir John winced inwardly. Outwardly he smiled and folded his newspaper
upon his knees.

"Ah, from my brilliant son. That is interesting."

"Have you had one?" she asked, in prompt payment of his sarcasm.

Sir John Meredith looked up with a queer little smile. He admired the
girl's spirit. It was the smile of the fencer on touching worthy steel.

"No, my dear young lady, I have not. Mr. John Meredith does not find
time to write to me--but he draws his allowance from the bank with a
filial regularity."

Millicent had the letter in her hand. She made it crinkle in her fingers
within a foot of the old gentleman's face. A faint odour of the scent
she used reached his nostrils. He drew back a little, as if he disliked
it. His feeling for her almost amounted to a repugnance.

"I thought you might like to hear that he is well," she said gently. She
was reading the address on the envelope, and again he saw that look of
concentrated gravity which made him feel uneasy for reasons of his own.

"It is very kind of you to throw me even that crumb from your
richly-stored intellectual table. I am very glad to hear that he is
well. A whole long letter from him must be a treat indeed."

She thought of a proverb relating to the grapes that are out of reach,
but said nothing.

It was the fashion that year to wear little flyaway jackets with a
coquettish pocket on each side. Millicent was wearing one of them, and
she now became aware that Sir John had glanced more than once with a
certain significance towards her left hand, which happened to be in that
pocket. It, moreover, happened that Guy Oscard's letter was i