of individual purpose. The rough
life, the sordid struggle, had left their mark, and this easy, coaxing,
comfortable life of London had not covered it up--not yet. He still
belonged to other--and higher--spheres.

There was a great contrast between him and Ian Stafford. Ian was
handsome, exquisitely refined, lean and graceful of figure, with a mind
which saw the end of your sentences from the first word, with a skill
of speech like a Damascus blade, with knowledge of a half-dozen
languages. Ian had an allusiveness of conversation which made human
intercourse a perpetual entertainment, and Jasmine's intercourse with
him a delight which lingered after his going until his coming again.
The contrast was prodigious--and perplexing, for Rudyard Byng had
qualities which compelled her interest. She sighed as she reflected.

"I suppose you can't get three millions all to yourself with your own
hands without missing a good deal and getting a good deal you could do
without," she said to herself, as he wonderingly interjected the
exclamation:

"Now, what do you know of the Limpopo? I'll venture there isn't another
woman in England who even knows the name."

"I always had a thirst for travel, and I've read endless books of
travel and adventure," she replied. "I'd have been an explorer, or a
Cecil Rhodes, if I had been a man."

"Can you ride?" he asked, looking wonderingly at her tiny hand, her
slight figure, her delicate face with its almost impossible pink and
white.

"Oh, man of little faith!" she rejoined. "I can't remember when I
didn't ride. First a Shetland pony, and now at last I've reached
Zambesi--such a wicked dear."

"Zambesi--why Zambesi? One would think you were South African."

She enjoyed his mystification. Then she grew serious and her eyes
softened. "I had a friend--a girl, older than I. She married. Well,
he's an earl now, the Earl of Tynemouth, but he was the elder son then,
and wild for sport. They went on their honeymoon to shoot in Africa,
and they visited the falls of the Zambesi. She, my friend, was standing
on the edge of the chasm--perhaps you know it--not far from
Livingstone's tree, between the streams. It was October, and the river
was low. She put up her big parasol. A gust of wind suddenly caught it,
and instead of letting the thing fly, she hung on, and was nearly swept
into the chasm. A man with them pulled her back in time--but she hung
on to that red parasol. Only when it was all over did