"No. But, you see, I happen to hold a different opinion. And now, John, I have a little sore grievance against you, and I want to work it off. We don't see much of you now. Why not?" "Well, `_we_' don't want to. Do you happen to know that only a couple of days ago I was requested not to come here any more?" "Do I happen to know? Why, of course I don't. This is the first I've heard of it," answered Nidia, speaking quickly and with some indignation. "I did not even know you had been here a couple of days ago. I only know how I have missed you since." "It is hardly fair, though, to give that as a reason. There may be others. One is, perhaps, that I thought you might have too much of a not very good thing; that you might have had enough of me during all the time we were together, and change is congenial sometimes. Again, perhaps, it is that I have not been feeling particularly cheerful of late, and feared to inflict it upon you." Nidia's face, which at first had taken on a hurt look, now grew very soft. "What have you been troubled about? Can you not tell me? _Me_, remember?" The very tone was a caress. But somehow it recalled the abominable hint thrown out by Mrs Bateman that very morning--the imputation that had stung and insulted him to the very core of his finest feelings--and the recollection hardened him. "Whatever I have been troubled about will trouble me as long as life itself," he answered, looking her in the eyes full and straight. "But I did not come here to whine to you, trouble or not. I came to say good-bye." "Good-bye?" "Yes. I have volunteered for active service, and am under orders to be in readiness to take the field at a moment's notice." "Then you may consider those orders cancelled. You are under orders to remain where you are until further notice." "What?" he said, looking down at her where she stood, for he had risen preparatory to taking his leave. "To remain where I am? What do you mean, Nidia?" "I mean that you can't go, and I don't intend that you shall. Heavens, what do you want to go getting yourself killed for? Wasn't it bad enough when you nearly did--when I--when we--all thought you were? You have got to stay here and take care of me." What was this? Nidia's self-possession breaking down so signally? Were his eyes and ears utterly deceiving him? There was what sounded suspiciously like the catch of a sob in her voice, and in her eyes that same look of appeal, of wistfulness, he had seen there when they bade each other that last farewell in the wilds of the Matopos. His face flushed beneath its bronze, then went white; but his voice was firm as ever as he imprisoned her with his arms. "To take care of you? Then I must do so for life, Nidia." "Yes; I think you had better, as you know how to do it so well," she replied, raising her lips.