ed in creamy alabaster. Her throat, indeed,
was Marice Hading's great beauty, and her pride in it the most sinful
of all her prides. She spent hours in her locked room massaging it and
smoothing it with soft palms, working snowy creams into it, modelling
it with her fine fingers, as though it were of some plastic material
other than flesh and blood. She watched for the traces of time on it
and fought them with the art and skill of a creature fighting for its
life. Indeed, when a woman makes a god of her beauty, it is her life
for which she is fighting in the unequal battle with time.

Night was naturally the time at which this reverenced beauty of hers
shone most effectively to the dazzlement of women and the undoing of
men. Day was not so kind. The South African sun is ruthless to
exposed complexions, and has an unhappy way of showing up the presence
of thick pastes and creams which have been worked into contours in
danger of becoming salients. So, although Marice never wore a collar,
but always had her gowns cut into a deep V both back and front, she
invariably shrouded herself with filmy laces and chiffons. She drew
these about her now and rose wearily. It seemed to her she had noticed
Druro looking at Gay with some strange quality in his glance.

"If we don't make a move, we shall never get there at all," she said
sharply.

Everything was going wrong tonight. Here she was stuck with two people
whom she detested, after specially planning to make the drive alone
with Druro!

"Come along; I expect the car is fixed up by now," said Tryon, and they
all moved out. A black porter was patrolling the stoep.

"Has my boy been here with petrol for the car?" asked Tryon.

"Yas, sar."

"And filled it?"

"Yas, sar."

They approached to get in, and a fresh annoyance for Mrs. Hading arose.
Druro said casually:

"How are we going to sit?"

"You are driving, of course," stated Marice, in an authoritative tone.

"No," said Tryon dryly; "I never let any one handle my car but myself."

Now, nothing would make Marice renounce the comfort of the front seat.
Even if she would have done it for the sake of sitting with Druro, she
knew that the jarring and jolting so unavoidable on African roads would
put her nerves on edge for the evening. So there was nothing further
to be said, but she felt, as she flung herself into the seat beside
Tryon, that this was verily the last straw. For a time she showed her
displeas