The official in question had been extremely cautious, not to say cold, during their little conversation, but a week or two later Athena had been gratified to receive from the great man a pretty little note in which he had informed her that her protégé--as he called poor Bayworth--was going, after all, to be given the post for which he was so admirably qualified. Athena had no reason to under-estimate her powers. The average man always, and the exceptional man generally, capitulated at once. Even politicians were indulgent to her ignorance, nay more, amused by her lack of knowledge of British public affairs. But Athena was now coming to see the value of such knowledge. Since the arrival of General Lingard, she had realised that there were all sorts of things which ordinary women--such women as Jane Oglander and Mabel Digby--know, but which she had never taken the trouble to learn. Lingard had already taught her a good deal. She had early adopted the excellent principle, when with a man, of allowing him to talk, especially when the subject was one about which she knew little or nothing. Lingard would have been amazed indeed had he known that a fortnight ago Athena Maule had scarcely heard of these subjects--so vitally interesting to those concerned with the expansion of our Empire in Africa--about which she now questioned him so intelligently. * * * * * The next day opened with very ill news--the news that Bayworth Kaye was dead. As is the way in the country, the servants heard the bare fact some time before it reached their betters. It formed the subject of discussion in the servants' hall on the previous evening, for the fatal telegram had reached the rectory at seven o'clock, and its contents had made their way, first to the stables of Rede Place, and from thence to the house half an hour later, at the very time Lingard was echoing Athena's words, "If only you were free!" "You'll 'ave to tell her when you go in with the cup of tea," observed Mr. Maule's valet to Mrs. Maule's French maid, Félicie. But the woman shrugged her shoulders, with a "Ma foi, non!" They had all wondered, with sighs and mysterious winks, how Mrs. Maule would take the news. The Corsican chef expressed great concern. "Ce pauvre jeune homme est mort d'amour!" he exclaimed to Félicie, and she nodded solemnly, explaining and expanding his remark to the others. "Gammon! An Englishman--an officer and a gentleman--don't die of such a thing as love," the butler said scornfully, and Félicie again had shrugged her shoulders. What did these unimaginative barbarians know of the tender passion?--nothing, save when it touched their own sluggish souls and bodies. Poor Monsieur Bayworth--so young, so gallant, always kindly and civil to Félicie herself. So unlike that prude, his mamma! Félicie had but one regret--that she had never seen Monsieur Bayworth in uniform.