generally
welcomed any distraction whilst preparing his school-work--a result
which Fraeulein Mozer probably took into account, particularly as she
had the metronome by her side at the time. 'Poor Mr. Vincent!' she
thought; 'he has not come to talk with Dolly of lovebirds.'

'You will be sure to write and tell us all about yourself,' said
Mabel. 'What do you mean to do out there, Vincent?'

'Turn coffee-planter, perhaps,' he said gloomily.

'Oh, Vincent!' she said reproachfully, 'you used to be so ambitious.
Don't you remember how we settled once that you were going to be
famous? You can't be very famous by coffee-planting, can you?'

'If I do that, it is only because I see nothing else to do. But I am
ambitious still, Mabel. I shall not be content with that, if a certain
venture of mine is successful enough to give me hopes of anything
better. But it's a very big "if" at present.'

'What is the venture?' said Mabel. 'Tell me, Vincent; you used to tell
me everything once.'

Vincent had very few traces of his tropical extraction in his nature,
and his caution and reserve would have made him disposed to wait at
least until his book were safe in the haven of printer's ink before
confessing that he was an author.

But Mabel's appeal scattered all his prudence. He had written with
Mabel as his public; with the chief hope in his mind that some day she
would see his work and say that it was well done. He felt a strong
impulse to confide in her now, and have the comfort of her sympathy
and encouragement to carry away with him.

If he had been able to tell her then of his book, and his plans
respecting it, Mabel might have looked upon him with a new interest,
and much that followed in her life might have been prevented. But he
hesitated for a moment, and while he hesitated a second interruption
took place. The opportunity was gone, and, like most opportunities in
conversation, once missed was gone for ever. The irrepressible Dolly
was the innocent instrument: she came in with a big portfolio of black
and white papers, which she put down on a chair. 'I can't find the
metronome anywhere, Fraeulein,' she said. 'I've been talking to Colin:
he wants you to come and say good-bye before you go, Vincent. Colin
says he nearly got "swished" to-day, only his master begged him off
because he'd done nothing at all really. Wasn't it nice of him? Ask
him to tell you about it. Oh, and, Vincent, I want your head for my
album. May I cut