"I had begun to feel that we might have been better friends, you and I; that--that I might have helped you more; that you had not had the sympathy you deserved; that civilisation was your debtor, and that--" "No, no, no, you must not speak that way to me," she interposed with agitation. "It--it is not necessary. It doesn't bear on the matter. And you've always been a good friend--always a good friend," she added with a little friendly quiver in her voice, for she was not quite sure of herself. Dicky had come out in a new role, one wherein he would not have been recognised. It was probably the first time he had ever tried the delicate social art of playing with fire of this sort. It was all true in a way, but only in a way. The truest thing about it was that it was genuine comedy, in which there were two villains, and no hero, and one heroine. "But there it is," he repeated, having gone as far as his cue warranted. "I didn't know he had given up his desert-city till two days before you did, and I didn't know he knew you, and I don't know why he gave up his desert-city--do you?" There was a new light in her eyes, a new look in her face. She was not sure but that she had a glimmering of the reason. It was a woman's reason, and it was not without a certain exquisite egotism and vanity, for she remembered so well the letter she had written him--every word was etched into her mind; and she knew by heart every word of his reply. Then there were the six slaves he sent to her-and his coming immediately afterwards. . . . For a moment she seemed to glow, and then the colour slowly faded and left her face rather grey and very quiet. He might not be a slave-driver now, but he had been one--and the world of difference it made to her! He had made his great fortune out of the work of the men employed as slaves, and--she turned away to the window with a dejected air. For the first time the real weight of the problem pressed upon her heavily. "Perhaps you would like to see him," said Dicky. "It might show that you were magnanimous." "Magnanimous! It will look like that--in a mud-cell, with mud floor, and a piece of matting." "And a balass of water and dourha-cakes," said Dicky in a childlike way, and not daring to meet her eyes. He stroked his moustache with his thumb-nail in a way he had when perplexed. Kingsley Bey was not in a mud-cell, with a mat and a balass of water, but in a very decent apartment indeed, and Dicky was trying to work the new situation out in his mind. The only thing to do was to have Kingsley removed to a mud-cell, and not let him know the author of his temporary misfortune and this new indignity. She was ready to visit him now--he could see that. He made difficulties, however, which would prevent their going at once, and he arranged with her to go to Kingsley in the late afternoon.