She withdrew the hand and changed colour slightly as she became conscious that the corner of the envelope was protruding.
“I suppose that by this time,” said Sir John pleasantly, “you are quite an authority upon African matters?”
His manner was so extremely conversational and innocent that she did not think it necessary to look for an inner meaning. She was relieved to find that the two men, having actually met, spoke of each other frankly. It was evident that Guy Oscard could be trusted to keep his promise, and Jack Meredith was not the man to force or repose a confidence.
“He does not tell me much about Africa,” she replied, determined to hold her ground. She was engaged to be married to Jack Meredith, and whether Sir John chose to ignore the fact or not she did not mean to admit that the subject should be tabooed.
“No—I suppose he has plenty to tell you about himself and his prospects?”
“Yes, he has. His prospects are not so hopeless as you think.”
“My dear Miss Chyne,” protested Sir John, “I know nothing about his prospects beyond the fact that, when I am removed from this sphere of activity, he will come into possession of my title, such as it is, and my means, such as they are.”
“Then you attach no importance to the work he is inaugurating in Africa?”
“Not the least. I did not even know that he was endeavouring to work. I only trust it is not manual labour—it is so injurious to the fingernails. I have no sympathy with a gentleman who imagines that manual labour is compatible with his position, provided that he does not put his hand to the plough in England. Is not there something in the Scriptures about a man putting his hand to the plough and looking back? If Jack undertakes any work of that description, I trust that he will recognise the fact that he forfeits his position by doing so.”
“It is not manual labour—I can assure you of that.”
“I am glad to hear it. He probably sells printed cottons to the natives, or exchanges wrought metal for ivory—an intellectual craft. But he is gaining experience, and I suppose he thinks he is going to make a fortune.”
It happened that this was precisely the thought expressed by Jack Meredith in the letter in Millicent’s hand.
“He is sanguine,” she admitted.
“Of course. Quite right. Pray do not discourage him—if you find time to write. But between you and me, my dear Miss Chyne, fortunes are not made in Africa. I am an old man, and I have some experience of the world. That part of it which is called Africa is not the place where fortunes are made. It is as different from India as chalk is from cheese, if you will permit so vulgar a simile.”
Millicent’s face dropped.
“But some people have made fortunes there.”
“Yes—in slaves! But that interesting commerce is at an end. However, so long as my son does not suffer in health, I suppose we must be thankful that he is creditably employed.”
He rose as he spoke.
“I see,” he went on, “your amiable friend the baron approaching with lawn-tennis necessaries. It is wonderful that our neighbours never learn to keep their enthusiasm for lawn-tennis in bounds until the afternoon.”
With that he left her, and the baron came to the conclusion, before very long, that something had “contraried” the charming Miss Chyne. The truth was that Millicent was bitterly disappointed. The idea of failure had never entered her head since Jack’s letters, full of life and energy, had begun to arrive. Sir John Meredith was a man whose words commanded respect—partly because he was an old man whose powers of perception had as yet apparently retained their full force, and the vast experience of life which was his could hardly be overrated. Man’s prime is that period when the widest experience and the keenest perception meet.
Millicent Chyne had lulled herself into a false security. She had taken it for granted that Jack would succeed, and would return rich and prosperous within a few months. Upon this pleasant certainty Sir John had cast a doubt, and she could hardly treat his words with contempt. She had almost forgotten Guy Oscard’s letter. Across a hemisphere Jack Meredith was a stronger influence in her life than Oscard.
While she sat on the terrace and flirted with the baron she reflected hurriedly over the situation. She was, she argued to herself, not in any way engaged to Guy Oscard. If he in an unguarded moment should dare to mention such a possibility to Jack, it would be quite easy to contradict the statement with convincing heat. But in her heart she was sure of Guy Oscard. One of the worst traits in the character of an unfaithful woman is the readiness with which she trades upon the faithfulness of men.
XVII
Underhand
The offender never pardons.
Victor Durnovo lingered on at Loango. He elaborated and detailed to all interested, and to some whom it did not concern, many excuses for his delay in returning to his expedition, lying supine and attendant at Msala. It was by now an open secret on the coast that a great trading expedition was about to ascend the Ogowe river, with, it was whispered, a fortune awaiting it in the dim perspective of Central Africa.
Durnovo had already built up for himself a reputation. He was known as one of the foremost ivory traders on the coast—a man capable of standing against those enormous climatic risks before which his competitors surely fell sooner or later. His knowledge of the interior was unrivalled,
