of
civility with which he received their greetings, or the contempt in his
eyes as he looked them silently over.

"Where are the lost tribe?" he inquired, as the girls, one on either
side, escorted him to the house.

They received his witticism with a piercing shriek of laughter.

"Mamma and her rag of a daughter are in the drawing room," explained
Miss Montressor--the young lady with fluffy hair who dressed in blue and
could dance. "Such a joke, General! They don't approve of us! Mamma says
that she shall have to take her Julie away if we remain. We are not
fit associates for her. Rich, isn't it! The old chap's screwing up his
courage now with brandy and soda to tell you so!"

Trent laughed heartily. The situation began to appeal to him. There was
humour in it which he alone could appreciate.

"Does he expect me to send you away?" he asked.

"That's a cert!" Miss Montressor affirmed. "The old woman's been playing
the respectable all day, turning up the whites of her eyes at me because
I did a high kick in the hall, and groaning at Flossie because she had a
few brandies; ain't that so, Flossie?"

The young lady with yellow hair confirmed the statement with much
dignity.

"I had a toothache," she said, "and Mrs. Da Souza, or whatever the old
cat calls herself, was most rude. I reckon myself as respectable as she
is any day, dragging that yellow-faced daughter of hers about with her
and throwing her at men's heads."

Miss Montressor, who had stopped to pick a flower, rejoined them.

"I say, General," she remarked, "fair's fair, and a promise is a
promise. We didn't come down here to be made fools of by a fat old
Jewess. You won't send us away because of the old wretch?"

"I promise," said Trent, "that when she goes you go, and not before. Is
that sufficient?"

"Right oh!" the young lady declared cheerfully. "Now you go and prink up
for dinner. We're ready, Flossie and I. The little Jew girl's got a new
dress--black covered with sequins. It makes her look yellower than ever.
There goes the bell, and we're both as hungry as hunters. Look sharp!"

Trent entered the house. Da Souza met him in the hall, sleek, curly,
and resplendent in a black dinner-suit. The years had dealt lightly with
him, or else the climate of England was kinder to his yellow skin than
the moist heat of the Gold Coast. He greeted Trent with a heartiness
which was partly tentative, partly boisterous.

"Back from the coining of the shekel