ou know, in Africa."

"I am careful; I have reason to be."

She was looking at him steadily, her blue eyes searching his.

"Yes?" she said slowly, and there were a thousand questions in the word.

"It would be very foolish of me to be otherwise," he said. "I am
engaged to be married, and I came out here to make the wherewithal. This
expedition is an expedition to seek the wherewithal."

"Yes," she said, "and therefore you must be more careful than any one
else. Because, you see, your life is something which does not belong
to you, but with which you are trusted. I mean, if there is anything
dangerous to be done, let some one else do it. What is she like? What is
her name?"

"Her name is Millicent--Millicent Chyne."

"And--what is she like?"

He leant back, and, interlocking his fingers, stretched his arms
out with the palms of his hands outward--a habit of his when asked a
question needing consideration.

"She is of medium height; her hair is brown. Her worst enemy admits, I
believe, that she is pretty. Of course, I am convinced of it."

"Of course," replied Jocelyn steadily. "That is as it should be. And I
have no doubt that you and her worst enemy are both quite right."

He nodded cheerfully, indicating a great faith in his own judgment on
the matter under discussion.

"I am afraid," he said, "that I have not a photograph. That would be
the correct thing, would it not? I ought to have one always with me in
a locket round my neck, or somewhere. A curiously-wrought locket is the
correct thing, I believe. People in books usually carry something of
that description--and it is always curiously wrought. I don't know where
they buy them."

"I think they are usually inherited," suggested Jocelyn.

"I suppose they are," he went on in the same semi-serious tone. "And
then I ought to have it always ready to clasp in my dying hand, where
Joseph would find it and wipe away a furtive tear as he buried me. It is
a pity. I am afraid I inherited nothing from my ancestors except a very
practical mind."

"I should have liked very much to see a photograph of Miss Chyne," said
Jocelyn, who had, apparently, not been listening.

"I hope some day you will see herself, at home in England. For you have
no abiding city here."

"Only a few more years now. Has she--are her parents living?"

"No, they are both dead. Indian people they were. Indian people have
a tragic way of dying young. Millicent lives with her aunt, Lady
C