“He’s going into the French Congo to shoot elephants,” Angel rattled on; “though what the poor elephants have done to him I have yet to discover.” “But this is sudden?” She was busy with the tea-things, and had her back toward them, so Jimmy did not see her hand tremble. “You’re spilling the milk,” said the interfering Angel. “Shall I help you?” “No, thank you,” she replied tartly. “This tea is delicious,” said Angel, unabashed, as he took his cup. He had come to perform a duty, and he was going through with it. “You won’t get afternoon tea on the Sangar River, Jimmy. I know because I have been there, and I wouldn’t go again, not even if they made me governor of the province.” “Why?” she asked, with a futile attempt to appear indifferent. “Please take no notice of Angel, Miss Kent,” implored Jimmy, and added malevolently, “Angel is a big game shot, you know, and he is anxious to impress you with the extent and dangers of his travels.” “That is so,” agreed Angel contentedly, “but all the same, Miss Kent, I must stand by what I said in regard to the ‘Frongo.’ It’s a deadly country, full of fever. I’ve known chaps to complain of a headache at four o’clock and be dead by ten, and Jimmy knows it too.” “You are very depressing to-day, Mr. Angel,” said the girl. She felt unaccountably shaky, and tried to tell herself that it was because she had not recovered from the effects of her recent exciting experiences. “I was with a party once on the Sangar River,” Angel said, cocking a reflective eye at the ceiling. “We were looking for elephants, too, a terribly dangerous business. I’ve known a bull elephant charge a hunter and----” “Angel!” stormed Jimmy, “will you be kind enough to reserve your reminiscences for another occasion?” Angel rose and put down his teacup sadly. “Ah, well!” he sighed lugubriously, “after all, life is a burden, and one might as well die in the French Congo--a particularly lonely place to die in, I admit--as anywhere else. Good-by, Jimmy.” He held out his hand mournfully. “Don’t be a goat!” entreated Jimmy. “I will let you know from time to time how I am; you can send your letters via Sierra Leone.” “The White Man’s Grave!” murmured Angel audibly. “And I’ll let you know in plenty of time when I return.” “When!” said Angel significantly. He shook hands limply, and with the air of a man taking an eternal farewell. Then he left the room, and they could hear the eerie whine of his patent siren growing fainter and fainter. “Confound that chap!” said Jimmy. “With his glum face and extravagant gloom he----” “Why did you not tell me you were going?” she asked him quietly. She stood with a neat foot on the fender and her head a little bent. “I had come to tell you,” said Jimmy. “Why are you going?” Jimmy cleared his throat. “Because I need the change,” he said almost brusquely. “Are you tired--of your friends?” she asked, not lifting her eyes.