"I am trying not to be," I said. "You see, the more one expects the greater the disappointment." "Who was your uncle?" she asked, after a moment's silence. "Another namesake of the poet?" "He wasn't a Dryden at all," I explained. "He was my mother's brother, and his name was Richard Jannaway." I had given my answer quite casually, but its effect was so startling that for a moment I stood there petrified with astonishment. Every vestige of colour had fled from my companion's face, and she was staring at me with an expression of incredulous horror. "Good heavens!" I exclaimed involuntarily. "What is it? What's the matter?" By a tremendous effort of will she managed to pull herself together. "It's nothing," she answered, with amazing coolness. "I--I once knew somebody of that name, but it couldn't possibly have been the same person." "I don't know," I said slowly; "there can't be very many Richard Jannaways in the world." Then I paused. "My uncle spent most of his life in South America," I added deliberately. I saw her hand tighten on the railing that she was holding until the knuckles stood out white and distinct under the skin. "South America?" she repeated in a low whisper. The same panic-stricken look had come back into her face, as though the two words confirmed all the strange dread which the first mention of my uncle's name had suddenly aroused. I came a step nearer to her. "For God's sake tell me what's the matter," I said again. "If there's anything in the world----" I was interrupted by the noise of the breakfast gong, which came booming up from below in a loud, insistent clamour. With another obvious effort my companion regained her self-control, and, letting go of the railing stood up in front of me, white and breathless. "Mr. Dryden," she said, "please don't ask me any questions. There is something I can't explain to you now--something I can never explain. I can only assure you that what you have told me makes no real difference between us. It was always quite impossible that we could ever be friends." "Nothing is impossible unless one admits it," I returned doggedly. She made a little despairing gesture with her hands. "You don't understand," she said; "and, please God, you never will." For one moment we remained facing each other in a strained, unnatural silence; then, without another word, she turned away towards the companion, and disappeared down the steps into the saloon. To say that I was utterly flabbergasted would be nothing but the literal truth. It had all happened so unexpectedly, and with such astounding abruptness, that for a second or so I felt like a man who had inadvertently dropped a lighted match into a large can of petrol. Indeed, no actual explosion could have reduced me to such a complete state of amazed bewilderment as that in which I stood staring at the spot where she had vanished.