s she felt that he was worthy of
higher things, but, if questioned, she would probably have laid it at
the door of caste and country. All that she knew, for a poignant
moment, was an intense longing to strike the smile from his lips with
anything to hand--a wine-glass, a bowl, a knife.

Mercifully, the moment passed, and all that most of them saw was a
young girl who had come late to dinner--a girl with a rather radiant
skin, purply black hair that branched away from her face as though with
a life of its own, and violet eyes that, after one swordlike glance all
round, were hidden under a line of heavy lashes. The black-velvet
dinner gown she wore, simple to austerity, had just a faint rim of
tulle at the edges against her skin. Only an artist or connoisseur
would have observed the milkiness of that skin and the perfect lines
under the sombre velvet. Small wonder that most eyes turned to the
lady who tonight took the place of ceremony at the table, and who, as
always, was arrayed in the delicate laces and pinkish tints that seemed
to call to notice the gold of the hair, the rose of her cheek, and the
golden-brown shadows of her eyes.

The little cloud of sadness and loss that hovered over her, yet never
descended, was like the rain-cloud that sometimes threatens a June day.
It seemed everyone's business to drive that cloud away, and everyone
but Christine applied themselves nobly to the task. At the end of the
long dinner, all were so properly employed in this manner that
apparently no one noticed the departure of the silent, scornful-lipped
governess, and she was able to make her exit without notice or
remonstrance.

For a little while she walked up and down in the garden under the rays
of a new and early-retiring slip of moon. Then, with a pain at her
heart that she had hoped it was for ever out of the power of life to
deal her, she retired to the nursery, relieved the coloured nurse from
her watch, and went quietly to bed.

For fully an hour afterward she heard the echo of laughter and voices
in the front veranda--sometimes the chink of glasses. Later, Mrs. van
Cannan sang and played waltz-music to them in the drawing-room. At
last the men departed, one by one. Mrs. van Cannan was heard calling
sharply for her night lemonade and someone to unlace her frock. Next,
the servants shuffled softly homeward through the dusk. The old Cape
cook, who had quarters somewhere near the kitchen, went the rounds,
lock