‘Yes; there’s not much of it, it hardly shows, but there’s no doubt it’s there. What it is I’ve never asked him, of course. I believe he’s very sensitive about it,--why, I don’t know, I’m sure--I only mention this, you know, because it hits off my theory of the why of what I’m going to tell you; besides,’ he muttered half to himself, ‘one mustn’t talk to him about the Strait Settlements. Well,’ he lighted a cigar, and pulled deeply at it for some minutes before going on, ‘when I first came to the Fijis they sent me up as Commissioner to a small island about a hundred miles north of this, called Luma. Why in heaven’s name they wanted a Commissioner there, the Colonial Office only knows. I went up with the wife and the infant, and for six months we were the only white people on the island; then the measles came, and they sent up a doctor--for his sins, poor old Synge. That place was a paradise for beauty, but a regular hell for loneliness. We had Judy (whom you know we brought over from Singapore with us), and another coolie, for servants, and Synge abode in a large native hut about a quarter of a mile away. Barring a ship’s calling, perhaps once in three months, with mails, not a soul ever came near that blessed place; solitary confinement was a joke to it.’ He paused, and drew a long whiff from his cigar; a breeze growing amongst the palm leaves sighed thro’ the verandah and blew the smoke into a wreath around his head. Clemenson shivered; the spirit of desolation seemed to have got into the tone of Hay’s voice.