True to her promise, Nidia had written--once--and with that letter he had had no cause to find fault. She had even sent him a dainty little portrait of herself, the only one she had, she explained; but where that was habitually kept we decline to say, "We shall meet again," she had declared. Yet if that utterance were to be unfulfilled, if indeed this dream were to fade, to go the way of too many such dreams, and to end in a drear awakening, even then was it not something to have lived in the dream, to have looked upon life as so new and golden and altogether priceless? With such considerations would he comfort himself in moments of depression. "We shall meet again." Often he would picture to himself that meeting. There would be others present most probably, but she, in his sight, would be alone. She would be surrounded by adorers, of course, but as her eyes met his she would know there was in reality but one. In all the adjuncts to her serene loveliness which taste and daintiness could surround her with, she would stand before him. Such would be their meeting, and upon it he dwelt; and to it his imagination reached through space, as to the culminating ecstasy of the goal of a life attained. From such soarings, however, comes a descent, as abrupt as it is profound, in this hard work-a-day world. John Ames sat bolt upright with a start of dismay, for the clock opposite told its own tale. His musings had carried him over some hours. It was nearly dark, and he was due--almost overdue--at Inglefield's. CHAPTER TEN. THE IGNITING OF THE FLAME. "That man's late again. He always is. Tom, don't ever ask him again. He seems to treat me with studied rudeness." Thus Mrs Inglefield, consulting her watch. She was an acid looking person, who might once have been passable in aspect. Now the deepening of her habitual frown was far from prepossessing. "It's only on the stroke of seven," said Inglefield, shortly. "Give him a little law, Annie. He'll be here directly. Perhaps some nigger turned up at the last moment on particular business." The suggestion was like throwing paraffin upon flames. "That makes it worse," exploded the lady. "To keep me--to keep us-- waiting to suit the convenience of a few filthy blacks--" "Well, give the chap a show," snapped Inglefield, not in the best of humours himself. The while, Crosse, the cattle inspector, sat profoundly pitying Inglefield, thinking, too, that the defaulter, when he did come, was not going to enjoy his dinner overmuch. "Hope I'm not late," said a voice in the doorway. "Not a bit, Ames; at least, only two minutes, and that doesn't count," cried Inglefield, cordially, feeling very much "in opposition." "Roll up, man, and have an appetiser, Crosse, you'll cut in?"