for a week or two.
It was not necessary for her to tell him that she was recently from
home, for he knew it by her air, her voice, her accent, her rustly
garments, the soft perfume of fur and violets, and a dozen little
intangible signs and symbols that all had an appeal for him. For Druro
was one of those Englishmen who love England from afar a great deal
better than they do when at home. He had lived in Rhodesia, off and
on, for ten years, and the veld life was in the very blood and bones of
him. Yet he always spoke of it as a rotten country, and gravely
affirmed that it was bad luck to have to live away from England.

"Give me London lamp-posts," he was in the habit of saying, "and you
can have all the veld you want for keeps." And he went home every
year, declaring that he was finished with Africa and would never come
back. Yet he came back. Also, he had built himself a lovely little
ranch-house in the midst of five thousand acres of Sombwelo Forest,
where there were no lampposts at all, only trees and a silent, deep
river full of crocodiles. It is true that he had never lived there.
He only went there and mooned by himself sometimes, when he was "out"
with the world. It had occurred to him, since his _rencontre_ with
Gay, that he would go there very shortly. But now this rustling,
softly perfumed lady made him remember his beloved lampposts. It was a
year since he had been home, and she meant home.

She was London; she was Torment; she was Town.

Curiosity to see her face consumed him. He felt certain that she was
beautiful. No plain woman could be so self-possessed and sure of
herself, could give out such subtle charm and fascination. After the
brutal and unexpected treatment he had received at the hands of Gay
Liscannon, he felt himself under some sweet, healing spell.

They reached the hotel all too soon. The bus, with her luggage on it,
had passed them by the way, and host and porters were awaiting her at
the front door. In the light she turned to thank him with a charming
smile, and he saw, as he expected, that her face was subtly beautiful.

"I hope we shall meet again, Mr.----" She paused smiling.

"Druro," he supplied, smiling too, "and this is Rhodesia. I'm afraid
you can't miss meeting me again--if you try."

He, too, as she very well observed, was good to behold, standing there
with the light on his handsome head. She did not miss the potency of
his smile. Nor, being a woma